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THE 


STORIED SEA 






BY 




SUSAN E. WALLACE 

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BOSTON 




JAMES 


R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 






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Copyright, 1883, 
By James R. Osgood and Company. 



All rights reserved. 



(JTamfrritige : 

PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON, 
UNIVERSITY PRESS. 



THE STORIED SEA 



"There it is, at last, — the long line of heavenly blue, and over it, far 
away, the white-peaked lateen sails ; and there, close to the rail, beyond the 
sand-hills, delicate wavelets are breaking forever on a yellow beach, each in 
exactly the same place as the one which fell before. One glance shows us 
children of the Atlantic that we are on a tideless sea. 

" There it is, — the sacred sea. The sea of all civilization, and almost all 
history, girdled by the fairest countries in the world ; set there that human 
beings from all its shores might mingle with each other, and become humane, 
— the sea of Egypt, of Palestine, of Greece, of Italy, of Byzant, of Marseilles, 
and this Narbonnaise, 'more Roman than Rome herself,' to which we owe 
the greater part of our own progress; the sea too of Algeria, and Carthage, 
and Cyrene, and fair lands now desolate, surely not to be desolate forever, — 
the sea of civilization. Not only to the Christian, nor to the classic scholar, 
but to every man to whom the progress of his race from barbarism to 
humanity is dear, should the Mediterranean Sea be one of the most august 
and precious objects on this globe ; and the first sight of it should inspire 
reverence and delight, as of coming home, — home to a rich inheritance, iu 
which he has long believed by hearsay, but which he sees at last with his own 
mortal corporal eyes." — Prose Idylls, Charles Kingsley. 




PREFACE. 




DDRESSED by the author to the be- 
loved unseen reader who wrote asking 
that these newspaper letters might be 
collected into a book. 

Through the courtesy of the editor of the 
"New York Independent," I now have the 
opportunity ; and it is a deep pleasure to think 
that in this new dress I shall be recognized 
and welcomed as an old acquaintance. As 
indicated in my initial chapter, I have not 
tri( j d to entertain the privileged few " who 
have everything," but have sought to amuse 
those whose recreations are not many, — the 
poor and the sick, the sorry and the dissat- 
isfied. This last is a pale procession, like the 



iv Preface. 

innumerable company John saw, which no man 
could number for multitude. In the summer 
voyage, very precious to me, among my unseen 
friends have been the bride in Nebraska who 
denied herself butter for a season that she 
might subscribe to the " Independent," and 
the young girl in Vermont who wants to 
know why she, who loves poetry so well, can- 
not write it. Nor have I strained to be in- 
structive. Schools and libraries are crammed 
with useful knowledge, and the hackneyed 
sights of the Elder World may be paved with 
ponderous volumes of accurate description of 
the "shining Orient." I have aimed only at 
an easy familiarity of talk, such as we would 
have together should we meet, as I hope we 
may, some happy morning. The guide-book is 
for the student of facts, — let me refer you to 
Baedeker and Murray, — but these transient 
pictures in water are for the gentle, patient 
soul wanting rest from that weariness known 
in our dear native land as mental culture. 

Parting is sweet sorrow to lovers whisper- 
ing in the starlit stillness of Italian nights, 



Preface. v 

but not to us no longer young. In the shad- 
ows of mature years wistfully we ask, When, 
where, how, shall we meet again ? So it is 
with feeling akin to pain I say good-by. The 
reader, so often addressed as "dear,' 1 is not a 
phantom or a shade, but a constant compan- 
ion grown into an abiding presence. It is not 
possible to dismiss such comradeship without 
regret. To all w T ho have sent pleasant mes- 
sages across the seas, peace and health! 

SUSAN E. WALLACE. 
Constantinople, May 1, 1883. 




CONTENTS. 



♦ 

PAGE 

I. On the Sea . . . 9 

II. The Max of Destiny 21 

III. Among the Brigands 33 

IV. In and about Tunis 46 

V. A Day in Carthage ....... 56 

VI. About the Arabs 70 

VII. Doing a Little Shopping 83 

VIII. The Light of the Harem. — Part I. . 97 

IX. The Light of the Harem. — Part II. 109 

X. The Light of the Harem. — Part III. 123 

XI. Byron ............ 135 

XII. Classic Funerals 145 



viii Contents. 

XIIL The American Girl: An Interlude. 

Part 1 158 

XIV. The American Girl: An Interlude. 

Part II 175 

XV. Something about Homer .... 187 

XVI. About Smyrna. — Part 1 201 

XVII. About Smyrna. — Part II. ... 214 

XVIII. Postscript 228 




THE STORIED SEA. 



I. 



ON THE SEA. 




T first I was wofully seasick. A violent 
wind-storm came on, as we left Genoa, 
and, after the rack of twent} T hours of 
misery, I gathered together the wretched remains 
of a body once fondly called my own and dragged 
it up on deck, in the hope that favoring winds 
might smooth the worn face to something less like 
the tangled lines of a map of a railroad centre. 
The " Fleur de Luce" is the flower of French 
steamers, new and clean, tidy and bright; the 
staterooms full of snug little contrivances, pockets 
and shelves, for the comfort of passengers. The 
captain, in fresh uniform, was an ancient mariner, 



10 The Storied Sea. 

with frost}^ whiskers and a fruit-like bloom in his 
cheeks; the very ideal of a commandant, and 
wearing the sweet courtesy which makes his 
nation the most attractive to the stranger of any 
people in the world. He came, without introduc- 
tion, to say he was charmed, " and every one on 
board is, also, to see Madame on deck." Ma- 
dame strove to frame a gracious answer, from 
detached and faded recollections of Oilendorf, 
rounding it with a ghastly but appreciative smile. 
" As there are but two ladies in the ' Fleur de 
Luce,' it would be a shame to have them ennuye 
one moment." 

He glanced admiringly at the fair, sweet face 
beside me, and was repaid with a smile that was 
better than others' speech, and a few timid words, 
gently spoken, in Indiana French. The captain of 
an American vessel would have smiled at English 
so imperfectly worded ; but the Frenchman never 
wounds one's amour propre. 

"There!" exclaimed the dapper little man, 
with a quick, energetic movement, which dis- 
placed the Provence rose in his button-hole. 
"Do you see that pale blue line?" 

I looked down the gold-laced sleeve and sun- 
burnt finger, in the direction pointed, and saw 
nothing but a sky that would be dazzling were it 



On the Sea. 11 

not so soft, and the sen, showing yet the dread 
swell of the storm in its Hecks of foam. 

u If Madame will have the goodness to look 
through the glass, she will sight the Island of 
Corsica." 

I adjusted the lens to m} T failing vision, and 
lo ! in faintest, dying hues the hills which the 
man who shook the world with his armies must 
have trodden when a boy. It was what the ge- 
nial captain had intended, — a diversion, or, as the 
French put it, a " distraction." My ills w T ere for- 
gotten. I saw the birthplace of Napoleon. Re- 
storing the glass to its owner, wdio bowed briskly 
and as briskly walked away, 1113' next thought 
was to take from ray capacious ulster pocket a 
tin}' scratch-book, free of any memorandum, and 
a new pencil, attached to it by a string of red 
tape. Resting the book on my knee, I proceeded 
to make an entry on what an old-time poet might 
call its virgin page. 

" Surely," said Thalia, looking up from cro- 
chet, " you are not going to attempt anything 
about the Mediterranean. Why, it has been 
written over for four thousand years." 

"Dear Thalia," I replied mildly, but with the 
firmness becoming the advocate of universal suf- 
frage, " there w T as once an artist whom the sons 



12 The Storied Sea. 

of men named The Divine. He had painted a 
hundred Madonnas, and one day he spread a can- 
vas and poured magic colors on his palette for the 
one hundred and first Holy Man 7 . Just then 
the judicious friend, who is never far off, entered 
the famous studio. ; What ! ' he exclaimed, as- 
tonished. 6 Another Madonna ! ' Said Raphael, 
with the rapt gaze which makes his face like the 
face of the archangel whose name he bears, c if 
all the artists of all the world should spend their 
lives in painting the Blessed Virgin, they could 
never exhaust her beauty.' So of this fairest of 
seas." 

"I understand," said Thalia, pettishly. "You 
would add a story to the Tower of Babel." 

It must be admitted travel is a hard strain on 
the temper. Many a match has been broken off 
and many a warm friend cooled in the ups and 
downs of the most comfortable journeyings. We 
two, usually in absolute harmony, were out of 
tune. I, worn and haggard with seasickness ; 
she gay and charming, insisting it was all non- 
sense, in her pride of stomach looking with deep 
contempt on the ignoble mind which basely yielded 
to the spirits of the vasty deep. 

"Thalia," I replied, in bitterness of soul, "wis- 
dom will die with you. Suppose I should indulge 



On the Sea. 13 

that lofty ambition you hint of, there are those 
who might watch my struggles heavenward and 
read the report with interest, — young people, 
to whom this world is not worn out, in fact, is 
something new, and life sweet and unspoiled." 

Thalia is not so young as she once was, and I 
touched her there, not intending it. 

4 -You know," I said, taking courage while I 
cut the fresh lead-pencil with an equally fresh 
pocket-knife, "in our own dear native land there 
are eighty thousand school-teachers." 

" I know. Once I was in that noble army of 
martyrs myself." 

'•I remember. They are between the upper and 
nether millstone ; underpaid and overworked ; 
slaves of a system, part of a boasted machine 
which stops not day nor night. They are mainly 
women, young girls, with hungry minds and weaiy 
bodies, and their best recreation is reading. On 
chintz lounges, cheap and hard, they lay their 
aching and breaking backs, and in short hours of 
rest snatch up something to read which tells of 
scenes unlike as possible to the dull grind of their 
daily duty. The Mediterranean is not stale and 
hackneyed to them. For them I sing" (loftily) ; 
"not for women with health, wealth, ease, who in 
evenings have only to sit in a too easy chair and 



14 The Storied Sea. 

watch the firelight play on diamonds." And I 
glanced at a superb solitaire following the crochet- 
needle. 

Thalia shook a cinder from her knitting and 
was silent. I pursued my subject. "There are 
young mothers rocking the cradle — of future sen- 
ators, let us hope — who may like to hear the old 
tales of the storied sea ; and farmers' boj^s, pos- 
sible Presidents, ploughing in work so unconge- 
nial that the Mississippi Valley is a valley of dry 
bones to them, instead of a land flowing with 
milk and honey, the glory of all lands. Why is it 
that the humdrum clerk, chained to the counter of 
a country ' store,' and the telegraph boj T , in the 
railroad station of the out townships, revel in 
tales of Buffalo Bill, the Scalp-Hunters of Bloody 
Gulch, and the Sleuth-Hound of the Sierras?" 

"I suppose," said Thalia, thoughtfully, "they 
want a contrast." 

"Precisely." I waved my scratch- book tri- 
umphantly, and began quoting my paper before 
the Indianapolis Culture Club. " There are thou- 
sands of women who are living, and will die before 
long, in narrow ruts, who long to see the world, 
but cannot look be} T ond the limits of their own 
State, except with others' eyes. Sunburnt, flat- 
chested, high-shouldered farmers' wives, who, 



On the Sea. 15 

from rosy youth to wrinkled age, vibrate between 
nursery and kitchen ; patient women, with hard 
hands and soft hearts, whose unwritten lives bear 
a pathos unspeakable, — the}' have buried the early 
wishes, hopelessly cherished, now ineffably dear, 
like the memory of dead children. The passion- 
ate longing has faded into a tender, lingering 
regret. It has no sting, because women learn 
readily to accept the inevitable ; but the trace of 
that feeling will never be quite effaced. In their 
half-hours of leisure the}' sit in the summer twi- 
light, not lighting the lamps for fear of drawing 
mosquitoes, and dream of a lost time in dim Ar- 
cadian days, when they believed it possible they 
too might hear the ; Miserere,' the music which 
makes men tremble and women faint, and listen 
to the curlew's cry above the blue Symplegades. 
They have ' given up,' and know that the hour will 
never come which brings them even so far as the 
shades of Mammoth Cave or within the thrill of 
the mighty voice of Niarara. Their biographies 
are forever unwritten ; only the seer, looking be- 
low the surface, can guess what still, deep cur- 
rents ebb and flow beneath the moveless calm. 
Xo wonder the insane asylums are recruited from 
the farm-houses." 

" No wonder," echoed Thalia, softly, laying 



16 The Storied Sea. 

down her work and absently looking at the shore 
of Ajaceio. " My mother was such a woman. 
She brought up six riotous children in a daily 
struggle to make both ends meet. That she did 
not go crazy was because her strong will and 
love of books carried her over the bridge from 
which so many in those straits fall. She used 
to read the foreign letters of the ' Post ' and 
the New York ; Tribune,' sitting by the oven 
door, as she browned the coffee and baked bread, 
and never tired of Irving and the old travellers 
and of hearing the missionaries talk. When we 
children used to sing 'Jerusalem the Golden,' 
how man}^ times I have heard her say, ' Oh, if 
I could only see the City of David ! ' But she 
died without the sight." 

Tears started to the blue eyes, at which I 
shook my head. " No tears for her, nvy dear. 
The New Jerusalem is better than the Old. 
Perhaps, if she were here, she might read what I 
have to say about Olivet and Calvary." Thalia 
nodded. " And then," to resume, " there are 
pale sempstresses, like Maud Muller by the 
spring, longing for something better than she 
had known (another sentence from the afore- 
named essay) ; for her I sing, and, besides, — and 
this is the strongest plea for new letters on stale 



On the Sea. 1/ 

subjects, — no two persons see eye to eve, and 
there is freshness in every first view. Yon have 
seen the ; Lady of Lyons ' ? " 

"I have," said Thalia, brightening at the 
recollection, — " in bridal beauty listening to the 
voice of the charmer charming never so wisely, — 
and I cried my handkerchief full when she said, 
'Tell him for years I never nursed a thought that 
was not his.' " And Thalia rose to her feet and 
repeated in a little sing-song thal^lovely passage. 

" I saw her, too, in her own Lyons." She 
fell into a listening, pensive attitude. " It was 
at the close of a long, hot dusty day, and down 
by the river which rushes past the silk-weaver's 
chimneys. She wore an absurd cap, made like a 
boy's flutter-mill, which flapped in the wind over 
her freckled forehead. My Pauline was tall and 
broad, fat and busy, her cheeks tanned to a 
dead-leaf brown. Her black stuff dress was 
tucked up to the w^aist, "knowing legs shaped like 
milestones and as sturdy." 

u How }"ou do love to spoil things!" said 
Thalia, indignantly. " I did not see her." 

" Xo ; you were in a warm nap, maybe, dream- 
ing of Pauline at McVicar's, where she appears 

* As though the Spring had been a living thing 
And wore her shape.' 
2 



18 The Storied Sea. 

I tell you of the Lady of Lyons as I saw 
her, — the daughter of the dirty city, her foot, a 
number six, on her native heath, and her hand in 
the dye-tub." 

44 Horrid woman ! Not in the dye? " 

44 That is where the genuine Pauline appears 
in the true picture ; all the rest are counterfeits. 
Her elbows were streaked with various colors, 
and she washed a skein of yarn in the stream 
which colored her hands red as Lady Macbeth's. 
They will never whiten. " 

"How different truth is from poetry," said 
Thalia, regretfully, " and how unlike the sympa- 
thetic see ! " 

44 You illustrate my text perfectl}\ Then I 
have your consent to attempt a fleeting picture 
in these water-colors, have I?" 

44 Well " (reluctantly), 44 you may, under prom- 
ise that you keep clear of that old hack." And 
she gave the red -backed Baedeker a sharp hit 
with the ivory needle. 

4 c T promise, and you and the rest of. my friends 
remember you hold the reserved right of not 
reading what the latest pilgrim has to tell." 

We lay back in our comfortable ship-chairs, 
and the steamer held on toward the shining 
shore. 



On the Sect. 19 

" One thing more," said Thalia, lifting her 
voice. "For pity's sake, don't copy the accu- 
rate-figures traveller, who saw the Sphinx at 
eleven o'clock. August 21, 1875, and climbed up a 
ladder with 10,000 rounds and measured its nose, 
and it was exactly five feet and six inches long." 

"I shall avoid all accurate figures with the 
utmost ease and pleasure, and also the style of 
the deeper borer, who makes a journal in this 
wise : — 

" After a restless night, rose and looked out. 
Weather rainy and cold. 

tfc 'October 9. Bad weather still continues. 

" ; October 10. Signs of clearing, but misty 
and dull. 

"'October 11. Bright but chilly. Will visit 
the Hebrides to-morrow. 

"' October 12. Fog came up and ruined the 
day's excursion,' etc." 

We laughed together, for the first time in two 
days. "To thine own self be true, my Thalia, 
and I will be to mine, and will submit every line 
to your criticism." 

•• Xo, no. Take any shape but that," she 
cried, with tragic gesture, " and my firm nerves 
shall never tremble. But here we are at 
Ajaccio." 



20 The Storied Sea. 

Dear reader, 3-011 do not know, you never can 
know, till we change places, how glad I am to 
catch yom friendly eyes again. The sights are 
but half seen, the sounds but half heard, without 
you. Your grace and favor have warmed my 
heart, and your sympathy and kind words have 
been to me golden harvests of garnered sheaves. 
Let me hold your hand while we stumble along 
the rugged mountain-side, and in the warm val- 
le}'s, strewn with sculptured stones, each one a 
history. Not on the sea alone, but in many 
a narrow crossing, shall I sing, — 

" Take, boatman, thrice thy fee, — 
Take, I give it willingly; 
For, invisible to thee, 
Spirits twain have crossed with me." 




II. 



THE MAX OF DESTINY. 




HAVE seen the chapels, mosques, and 
temples of the farthest East, the red 
minarets of Cairo, and the vari-eolored 
shades of the Alhambra ; but nothing has ever 
touched me like the tomb of Napoleon, in Paris. 
It is a perfect harmony, charming the eye as 
exquisite music holds the ear. " The place of 
his rest is glorious," I said, as I entered the 
marble church of the Hotel des Invalides, shaped 
like the dome of our own Capitol. The stillness 
and coolness of the great chamber after the glare 
of the white, hot streets was solemn and soothing 
to the tired sense. The tombs of the faithful 
Duroc and Bertrand passed, then we bent over 
the marble balustrade and looked down in the 
sparious circular crypt, with its awful sarcopha- 
gas of black marble, which contains the lead 
and cedar collins of St. Helena. It holds all 



22 The Storied Sea. 

that is left of the Man of Destiny. A rush of 
feeling came over me, as a strong wave bears 
you off 3'our feet, and tears started to my eyes 
with the mere sense of the beautiful. The twelve, 
lamps, of Pompeiian bronze, lighted the space 
and gilded chapel above. The tessellated pave- 
ment was a crown of laurel, set with stripes ; 
rays, forming a star, breaking from the wreath 
which surrounds the monument. In that costly 
pavement read the enchanted names : Kivoli, the 
Pyramids, Marengo, Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, 
Wagram, Moscowa. They stir the blood, like 
notes of the bugle calling to battle. The flags 
from those fields are there, drooping shreds and 
tatters of the splendid banners that flew but to 
victor} 7 ; a pathetic histoiy. Descend the steps 
and mark a slab of black marble above the stately 
brass gate which closes the dark peristyle. On 
it are engraved these words, from the Emperor's 
will : — 

" I DESIRE THAT MY ASHES MAY REST 

ON THE BANKS OF THE SEINE, 

AMONG THAT FRENCH NATION I LOVED SO WELL." 

On each side the gate is a colossal brass statue. 
One holds the globe, the other the imperial scep- 
tre. They seem to guard the sleep of the 
greatest modern captain and hold his fame in 



The Man of Destiny. 23 

silent and eternal keeping. In the sword-room, 
reached by a gate of gilt bronze, are sixty stand- 
ards, the records of triumphant fields, the golden 
crown given by the town of Cherbourg, the badges 
and sword of Austerlitz. They appeal to French- 
men yet with undiminished force, and even to the 
stranger. 

What a strange doom that of all that fighting 
family only one, a remote descendant, should die 
in battle ! Poor little Louis ! Unhappy Eugenie ! 
It was hardly a battle, either ; a skirmish with 
savages in a barbarian province, where the gentle 
boy thought to win his spurs, and with them, 
perhaps, the hand of an English princess. What 
a tender souvenir was his will, and, oh ! what 
towering hopes were laid away in his untimely 
grave ! 

The harbor of Ajaccio is a curve, graceful as a 
bent bow. First it was but mist, vapor ; then 
the quay ; then blue hills back of the town, which 
lies close to the water's edge. Built of white 
stone and glistening like snow in the noonday 
sun, it had the air of neatness and thrift charac- 
teristic of nearly all French towns, refreshing 
the mind and imagination of the housekeeper. 
One reason is, stone houses do not show age like 
the pine boxes we live in, and last rift}' years as 



24 The Storied Sea. 

well as one. We stopped an hour. The gentle- 
men bought cigars, and the ladies bought apricots 
of the natives, and olive-cheeked boys came 
aboard and sang plaintive little airs to words we 
could not understand, except " Savoy, Savoy," 
keeping time with a poor old rack-o' -bones guitar. 
They looked like pictures of improvvisatores, and 
had a most poetic appearance, in spite of dirt. 
I could not help noticing that each one wore a 
seal-ring. 

Yes, that was Ajaccio, and I had lived to see 
with my own eyes the halcyon waves breaking 
on the serene shore. If the boy be, indeed, 
father of the man, the young Bonaparte must 
have dreamed, like Joseph among his brethren 
in the field of Shechem, that their sheaves bowed 
obedience to his, that their stars paled before 
his own. On this playground he must have 
known himself superior to his narrow island 
home and kindred, but could not have thought 
himself a centre round which they should cluster, 
an emperor making kings at a word and dis- 
tributing crowns like ribbons and badges. 

The fourth person in our party is the Anti- 
quary, who has lately written an exhaustive 
work (to the reader) on the Prehistoric Man. 
He wore green goggles at sea, to guard his eyes, 



The Man of Destiny. 25 

which are always red ; at their corners the 
blackest bird that flies has set his footprints, and 
digging Greek roots is not calculated to clear 
them of wrinkle or color. He stood with us on 
deck, watching the grouping in the pretty town. 
u Now," he said, with the air of a man firing a 
bomb, " we are near the land of one of the most 
depraved men that ever breathed the breath of 
life." 

The missile struck as he had foreseen. 

" He was a hero, and I gloiy in him," retorted 
Thalia, with the freshness of unworn enthusiasm. 

" You glory in one who would never glory in 
you or an}' daughter of Eve," said Antiquary, 
severely and aggressively. " Women were merely 
a means of population to him ; and when he used 
to ask, apropos of nothing, ' Madame, how many 
sons have you?' he was only thinking how many 
conscripts she could furnish for his thinning ranks. 
With all his genius, he never was a gentleman. 
Men were knives to him, women the forks, and 
with them he carved the world up." 

"How savage you are!" said Thalia, tartly. 
" You know the}' always loved him." 

"Yes, he was magnetic; he drew them by 
some unknown attraction, — a secret power of 
great men. It was partly his appearance. Like 



26 The Storied Sea. 

Alcibiades, he was beautiful at every age. The 
French portraits of him, from Itaty to Moscow, 
are perfect pictures, and the bust made during 
the campaign in Egypt, the property of the late 
Mrs. Susan Bonaparte, of Baltimore, is the most 
exquisite thing I ever saw in marble. It might 
well stand for an ideal head of Poetry, Apollo, 
Morning, and is entirely without the heaviness of 
the later portraits. Even the dying figure, by 
Nele, is more beautiful in death than any other 
in perfect health." 

" How about Josephine?" asked Thalia, with 
a slight sneer on her pretty lips. 

"Oh! she was a soft, cat-like Creole, pliant 
as oil, who knew how to yield gracefully where 
she could not control. The woman twice mar- 
ried, who would have been twice divorced but 
for the death of Beauharnais, is not such as 3011 
love." And he bowed his antiquated bow. 

" She loved him to the last." 

4 'Yes, selfishness never fails to find its wor- 
shippers, — in Dickens, for instance. The Bona- 
partes were absorbents. The world was created 
for them, and they divided it among themselves." 

The Antiquar}^ is an elderly, not to say old, 
bachelor, usually mild and softly spoken, now a 
little warmed over his subject. He took off the 



The Man of Destiny. 27 

goggles, breathed on them, and polished them by 
rubbing with a scrap of chamois, kept for the 
purpose in his watch-pocket. 

" Napoleon should have died at "Waterloo," 
he continued. ;i You know he practised pose 
and drapery under Talma, and, with his sharp 
e}'e for dramatic effect, should have seen the 
grand theatric stroke in leading the Old Guard 
in a dying charge ; but no. He poetically writes : 
8 Since it is not permitted me to die in the field,' 
etc. Had he dashed into the thick of the fight 
that last day, I do believe Fate would have 
accepted his death. What a glamour and daze 
there was in the name of Napoleon forty years 
ago ! Happily it is being blown away. Hum- 
bug ! humbug ! The French are always after 
striking effects." 

"And lovely ones they make," said Thalia, 
warmly. 

4 'You remember," said the scoffer, without 
heeding the interruption, " Danton's dying words 
to Samson, the headsman: 'Thou wilt show my 
head to the people. It is w^orth showing.' And 
Mirabean, rousing from the dulness of death 
at the sound of cannon : ' What, have we the 
Achilles's funeral already?' modestly alluding to 
self. Those Revolutionists always managed to 



28 The Storied Sea. 

appear near the footlights at the front of the 
stage, and strike a fine attitude as the curtain 
fell to slow music. How much claptrap there is 
in Paris — France, to be sure, to be sure ! " 

Thalia turned away, and took up her Ollendorf, 
applying herself to the study of that ridiculous 
guide, philosopher, and friend of youth who 
teaches language in wise questions and answers : 
"Does the good Russian wish to buy the fine 
looking-glass of the tailor's boy ; or that of the 
sailors with the silver candlestick and pretty 
umbrellas?" etc. 

I heard the steady buzz, buzz ; but knew it 
would not last long, for Thalia hates study. This 
was only a pretence. She was vexed, and a 
blood-spot glowed in each cheek, — " a rose in 
the snow." Presently she laid down the book, 
and, looking over the guard into the bright, trans- 
parent water, she asked : u What do 3-011 suppose 
would have happened had Bonaparte conquered 
the Continent, as he hoped to do ? " 

" He would have made Rome the centre, the 
poor little Duke of Reichstadt his king and suc- 
cessor, and would have lorded it like the latter- 
day emperors of Rome. Possibly, to amuse the 
people, he might have ordered the old soldiers to 
be given to the lions of the circus, as they used 



The Man of Destiny. 29 

to be thrown away, because fighting-men worn 
out are useless, and after exhausting wars meat 
is dear. He was none too good for that. Men 
were, in his estimate, only cannon-balls, — useful 
implements of war." 

•• There must have been good in him," said 
Thalia, excitedly, " T\ e never had a general 
whose six brigadiers would follow him to exile in 
an island where no one, foreign or native, was 
ever known to live sixt} T years." And here she 
took a scrap from the guide-book and read : " All 
wept, but particularly Savaiy and a Polish offi- 
cer, who had been exalted from the ranks by 
Bonaparte. He clung to his master's knees ; 
wrote a letter to Lord Keith entreating permis- 
sion to accompany him, even in the most menial 
capacity, — 

' All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave, 
Sharing, by the hero's side, 

His fall, his exile, and his grave.' " 

"Good, if true," said Antiquary, dryly. "It 
sounds mightily like French clap-trap." 

"You are incorrigible, and I close this talk 
with an appeal to the silent woman." 

"This is not my funeral, Thalia, and I save 
my tears for fresher graves." 



30 . The Storied Sea. 

Antiquary walked to the prow, to watch the 
dolphins pla} T , and Thalia picked up her Afghan 
stripe again. She is a true golden blonde. You 
do not see four such heads in a lifetime. But 
little past her first youth, not over twenty-eight ; 
the gold of her hair still untarnished ; her eyes 
blue as wild violets, without a dash of gra} T or 
brown ; clear pink and white skin ; little teeth, 
white as milk, in a dimpled bab} T mouth, — such 
is my Thalia; the widow of a rich, but honest 
commission merchant of Chicago, lovely in her 
mourning draperies as she never had been in her 
day of blue ribbons, and not unlike the portrait 
of Lady Hamilton, beloved of Nelson, which 
hangs in the National Gallery, London. A woman 
feminine in eveiy fibre, body and soul, who had 
kept her pure childish beliefs, her cradle faitli 
in men and God, to mature years ; one to be 
adored because she herself was a worshipper, and 
the most lovable person I have known, taking 
her for all in all. She had her tempers, however, 
as 3'ou will discover when you u get acquainted," 
as we journey on. 

" Willy always believed in Napoleon," she said 
softly, as to herself. 

And who was Willy? Her husband of seven 
months, — killed, crushed under a grain elevator. 



The Man of Destiny. 31 

In life, she had called him " Will," but a new 
tenderness came to her voice when that mangled 
corpse was brought home and she laid the pathetic 
clay in the dust toward which it was drawn by 
such mysterious kinship. 

Reclining in her easy-chair, the light, fluffy 
hair against the black shawl, Thalia was ver}- fair 
to see, and I watched the blue eyes grow dreamy 
and moist while she was bus3 T with memoiy. 
The}' were with her heart, and that was far away. 
Willy Benson's outer life was an every-da}' story. 
Emphatically a working-man, his subordinates 
called him a little hard, but the home side of his 
heart was warm as June. Whatever business 
troubles he had he bore alone. The heat and 
dust of the warehouse were not for her ; the rain 
must not dampen her feet nor the winds of 
heaven visit her too roughly. His calm, earnest 
way of loving had won her whole soul ; but not 
at first sight, for she was another Portia, — 

'•Her sunny locks 
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece, 
And many Jasons come in quest of her." 

She loved him with the love which comes but 
once in a lifetime, and her seven months of mar- 
riage were the seven golden sheaves in the vision 



32 The Storied Sea. 

of the patriarch, the seven shining lamps in the 
most holy place. 

Oh, blessed, transfiguring light, which falls 
like the light which fell but once on Tabor ! Be 
their earthly lives what they may, when the 
beloved pass be}~ond the veil, eveiy earthly fault 
is dropped with the outworn earthly garment, 
and from out the shining cloud their far-reaching 
voices come back, like the voices of those who 
have learned of the angels. 




III. 



AMONG THE BRIGANDS. 




I 



TACCIO used to be a great place for 
brigands," I said, as we pushed out to 
sea. 

4 * They are pretty well rid of about this place," 
said Antiquary, with the positive air of one who 
knows, "and the outlaws of the Mediterranean 
are now in force, organized and equipped, in Asia 
Minor. When I was here, ten years ago, I heard 
a story and read a paper, duly attested and sworn 
t<> by a British subject, whose name you doubtless 
saw in the New York papers of the time." 

44 Let us have the story," said Thalia, delight- 
edly. "I know it is just like ' Irving's Sketch 
Book,' — three robbers, with belts full of pistols, 
and red sashes, spring out of a thicket ; the trav- 
eller is throttled, gagged, carried up the mountain 
side and — " 

3 



34 The Storied Sea. 

" I thought I was to be the stoiy-teller. Par- 
don the interruption ; but you allow imagination 
to run away with you." 

" True, O king ! But make it long and make 
it romantic. On ship there is so much time, time, 
time ! " She tapped the deck with the toe of her 
little boot and waited attentively. 

" 1 am sorry not to do that/' said the Anti- 
quary ; u but, in touching a record witnessed and 
sworn to, I must tell the tale as 't was told to 
me. The hero was no longer young, and quite 
bald," he continued, with an ironic smile and the 
particularizing way of one who writes more than 
he talks and is used to good listeners. " His 
name was Johnson, and he had' a farm about the 
size of Cincinnatus's, where the plough has been 
standing in the midst of the furrow manj T cen- 
turies. You ma} T have had some remote hint of 
that ancient agricultural implement in your school 
da}^s. It was not a great way from Sorrento. 
One winter night — " 

"I thought it was always summer in Italy," 
struck in Thalia. 

u The} 7 have wTetched, raw da}'s there, when 
the orange-trees shiver with snow and the moun- 
tain air is frosty and biting. Let me get on with 
my yarn, or the gargon will clear the decks before 



Among tlic Brigands. 35 

I am clone. This was a cold, snowy night. Mr. 
Johnson was warm in his comfortable library, 
when he was startled by shots rattling against 
the iron shutters and blows against the door 
below. The house was of brick ; the lower lioor 
a granary, which had no interior communication 
with the rest of the rooms. Mrs. Johnson hid in 
her boudoir, and Mr. Johnson went upon the roof 
and fired in the direction of the sound and flashes 
of light. The brigands were under cover. He 
wounded a few boards in the outhouse ; but 
nothing else was hurt. Presently there was a 
crash below, and smoke, bursting from the lower 
windows, announced the robbers had got in and 
were setting fire to the house. Nothing was left 
the gallant Englishman (did I tell you this was a 
British subject?) but to come down and surrender. 
He knew he would not be harmed, nor would his 
wife ; for all the brigands want is the ransom 
which the}' have learned by experience England 
is ready to advance for the lives of her officers. 
Mr. Johnson found the lower floor in possession 
of the gang, who saluted him with politeness and 
assured him they had no intention of frightening 
any one. The chief ordered the trembling ser- 
vants to put out the fire of lighted straw, which 
had been kindled on the stone floor and did no 



36 The Storied Sea, 

damage. Thej T had left the forest, which is their 
haunt, shortly after dark, sent their servant in 
advance with meat to silence the w r atch-dogs, 
and so won an easy victory. 

" At the door was Mr. Johnson's own riding- 
horse, saddled and bridled, and his wife's brown 
mare waiting. The robber explained that he 
took only the dark horses and had left the gray in 
the stable because its color would show in the star- 
light. Pie then ordered Mr. Johnson to go up- 
stairs and bring Miladi, which was done. Before 
mounting her horse, for whom the chief held the 
stirrup, Mrs. Johnson asked leave to collect a 
few trifles necessary for a lady's comfort on a 
short journe}', giving her parole oThonneur she 
w r ould make no signal, noise, or outcry. There 
w T as no one to see if she did. The gallant outlaw 
gave permission, and her valise of valuables was 
taken in charge by the chief. As they after- 
ward learned, the robbers were seven in number, 
— four Algerines, three Greeks, one former!}' a 
monk at Mount Athos. Strange to tell, he still 
wore his old monastic habit and made the sign 
of the cross before and after meals. From the 
beginning, the Greeks have been a nation of 
pirates, by sea and by land. The ancient heroes 
were merely organized corsairs, ready to fight 



Among the Brigands. 37 

each other, as they were the enemy in the plains 
of Troy. Ajax was forever in a pout, sulking 
about the camp ; and Achilles threatening to sail 
off with his command, back to Greece. But this 
is getting ahead of my story. 

" The troops surrounded the prisoners by order 
of the chief, Leonidas (the glorious old names 
have never dropped out of Grecian memory), 
struck into a sharp pace, and, after two hours of 
absolute silence in the rugged road, the lad}' 
complained of fatigue. The band halted in a 
ruined tower, of Venetian work, and held a 
whispered council. After lively disputes under 
their breath (for the Greeks are nothing if not 
wordy), Leonidas announced to Mrs. Johnson 
that she was impedimenta — too great an incum- 
brance for them to carry — and must return 
home. She must tell no one what had happened 
for two days (the servants had already been 
warned), and at the end of that time she should 
Bee the British authorities, and speedily arrange 
a ransom. ' Else,' said the brigand, with an 
ominous gesture across his throat, ' it will go 
hard with our captive.' 

•• -And must I ride back through this awful 
I alone?' asked tbe timid lady. 
• By no means/ rejoined the polite outlaw. 
* Brother Basil will escort you.' 



38 The Storied Sea. 

u ' And ma}- I say good-by to my husband 
before I leave him, maybe forever?' she asked, 
bursting into tears. 

" 'It can do no harm; but be quick and be 
still about it. I hate a crying woman. She 
unsettles everything.' " 

"It is all like a romance," said the pleased, 
intent Thalia. 

" Yes, Italy is a story-book. The very stones 
in the streets are over- written with them. This 
is no romance ; a plain, unvarnished tale under 
oath, a deposition. 

" The lady was conducted home in peace and 
safet} r , and Brother Basil refreshed himself with 
wine, bread, and grapes before starting back to 
rejoin his comrades. 

" In the gray of the morning the gang, with 
Mr. Johnson, entered a cave, kindled a little 
fire, cooked a kid, and made coffee. Then the 
whole party slept, except one sentinel, relieved 
every two hours. 

u About noon the chief dictated a letter to the 
British authorities at Eome. If the ransom w T as 
not forthcoming in ten daj^s, the ears of the 
prisoner would be sent in ; if not in eight, his 
nose; if not in ten, his head. Besides the ran- 
som demanded, eight thousand pounds sterling, 



Among the Brigands. 39 

there must be two gold watches, with chains, 
three amber cigar-holders, and four breeehloading 
revolvers, silver-mounted, and of superior make 
and finish. If pursued, the prisoner would be 
killed instantly. The obedient captive wrote the 
letter on the little pine table which served for the 
dinner. It was scanned with the utmost care b} r 
Leonidas, and then sent off by a peasant, sum- 
moned by a sailor's whistle from the forest. 
The prisoner was then blindfolded, and again the 
mounted gang pressed up a rocky path, very 
steep, as Johnson knew by the motion of the 
horse. They halted by day and rode by night, 
two days and nights. Then a second letter was 
dictated. The chief had neglected to mention 
in the former letter that if there was any bad 
money in the bags the sum demanded for their 
captive's ransom would be doubled. 

"The final halt was made in a great cavern, 
under a hill, used as a storehouse by the robbers, 
where all sorts of spoil had accumulated. There 
was a bed of good mattresses for the tired pris- 
oner, and the men received guests and made 
merry with wine and wassail, in which Brother 
Basil gayly held his own, as the bottle went 
merrily round." 

Ci Did they treat poor Mr. Johnson cruelly?" 



40 The Storied Sea, 

u Not at all. Their interest was to keep him 
alive and well ; a dead man has no money value 
among thieves. The chief remarked, in expla- 
nation of their scant fare, that gentlemen of his 
profession were hard up, the government officials 
had grown so vigilant. However, the prisoner 
alwa} T s had his plenty of bread, goat's flesh, and 
wine, when the outlaws were on half rations. 
He gradually grew into a sort of companionship 
with the reformed monk." 

" Reformed ! When, I pray to know." 
u Entirely reformed," said Antiquary, pleased 
with the feeble joke, " and he was a capital hand 
at cards and the Roman game mora. The ten 
days went by, twelve, twenty, still no friendly 
messenger from the home authorities ; no white 
flag, nor peasant bearing despatches with official 
seal. Then a third letter was dictated. If the 
ransom was not paid over at a certain time and 
place, the captive would be flayed alive, or, as 
they put it, make a jacket a la Franca ; that is, 
the skin of the upper part of the body would be 
removed, and the martyred Johnson roasted a la 
broche. He now began to be seriously alarmed. 
He had assurance that active and powerful friends 
were busy ; but there might be some hitch in the 
proceedings and he be killed. Besides, the gang 



Among the Brigands. 41 

began to bo quarrelsome, and some of their brawls 
were well-nigh fatal. As a rule, divisions of 
spoils were made in absolute submission to the 
chief; but one dispute warmed into a light, in 
which blows were freely exchanged. It was 
over the disposal of lockets, ladies' rings, and a 
superb watch, set with diamonds. This last was 
the special admiration of Brother Basil. 

"The weather was bitter cold, and the wind 
swept into the cavern, where fire was rarely 
lighted by day, unless in foggy or snow}- weather. 
The horses fared badly, without shelter and a 
meagre allowance of hay. One day another 
prisoner was brought in by the Algerines, badly 
wounded and with one arm broken. He begged 
hard for life, only life on any terms, and Johnson 
added his entreaties ; but the man was shot and 
hastily buried in a shallow pit." 

"Poor fellow!" said the soft-hearted Thalia, 
pityingly. 

*• He was much the same stripe as his cap- 
tors : all thieving cutthroats. I have seen these 
fellows often about Smyrna and Rhodes. They 
are handsome rascals, with keen, luminous eyes, 
hair and beard so black as at first to give the 
impression of being dyed, so utterly without 
shading is it. Each one has his curious ring, 



42 The Storied Sea. 

worn for some superstition (I do not know what), 
and a quiet, observant way of watching, without 
seeming to see anything, from under those jetty 
e}'ebrows, which often meet across the forehead. 
But this is a digression, as our friends the nov- 
elists say. 

" Every clay, at noon, the brigands had intelli- 
gence of some sort. They knew well what was 
going on in the cities, and the peasants of Italy 
knew some illustrious prisoner was being held 
for ransom. Any information given b} T them to 
the Government spies and officials would be paid 
for with the loss of all they had, if not of their 
heads. Johnson had the great relief of hearing 
the sailor's whistle several times a da} T , and 
gathered that his friends were stirring and thor- 
oughly in earnest. Scouts came in often, and, 
from the bustle and debates in camp, he felt 
sure his captivity was well-nigh ended. 

"At last, the happy day came. The robbers, 
with their captive, met a delegation of three 
Englishmen at an appointed place in the forest. 
The bags of money were unloaded from a mule ; 
opened ; each piece counted and inspected, to 
see there was no spurious coin and no marks 
to give a clew to their whereabouts afterward. 

" The watches and amber cio'ar-holders were 



Among the Brigands. 43 

not forgotten in the exchange, and a Martini 
rifle was ottered and rejected. 

•• Leonidas wanted a Winchester ' with many 
cartridges.' What a contrast these well-mounted, 

well-armed bands are with the ragamuffins of 
fifty years ago, who had nothing but blunder- 
busses and dagger ! 

" After some grumbling and much swearing, 
the prisoner was delivered up to his friends. 
While the money was being counted, the}' had 
shaved him, cut his unkempt hair, and given him 
a good breakfast of broiled kid and white bread. 
Then Brother Basil graciously spread his fat 
hand above Johnson's uneasy head and gave 
him his blessing, shook hands with him, and, 
in flattering terms, expressed his happiness at 
having so long enjoyed the society of such a 
distinguished prisoner, — one worth ten thousand 
pounds to his country ; yes, and more too. 

"The brigands returned six Napoleons, bor- 
rowed of Johnson in the cave, and a revolver. 
They also gave him the worst horse in their 
forest stable, and the .captive of three months 
rode away with his friends a sadder and a wiser 
man." 

4 * There is a sort of unreality about this 
story," I said. 



44 The Storied Sea. 

"I grant it," said Antiquary; " but if you 
will read the newspapers of the Levant, }ou will 
see there is not the least exaggeration, and that 
the British Government has served notice on the 
brigands of all nationalities that no more ransoms 
will be paid." 

ci A romantic tale." 

u Yes ; but strictly true. I should have men- 
tioned that the robbers brought frequent letters 
from Mrs. Johnson to her husband, and he was 
allowed to write open letters to her, which Leoni- 
das gave to Brother Basil, as the best scholar 
of the gang, to see if there was no concealed 
writing or marks conve}ing secret intelligence. 
They never ate meat on Fridays, were deeply 
superstitious, and trembled and dropped on their 
knees at the sound of thunder." 

" Why do not the peasants inform on them? " 

"As I told 3'ou, through fear of their own 
fields and cottages. When the season is good, 
the brigands make presents to the poorest, and 
one has been known to pay the expense of 
educating the eldest son of one of his humble 
admirers ; for the lower classes have the deepest 
admiration of all this bravado, and the desperadoes 
are welcome in hut and bower to the contadina. 
Many a time I 've seen them in the dance with 



Among the Brigands. 45 

the pretty peasant girls, and the most noted are in 
high favor with the simple creatures, given to 
hero worship. Women are given to adoration 
the world over, you know, and themselves cre- 
ate the aura of the divinity before whom they 
kneel." 





IV. 

IN AND ABOUT TUNIS. 

KNOW nothing more disappointing than 
an olive grove. Its feathery, silver- 
gray foliage has been described in many 
books, and its associations with Gethsemane and 
Calvary have given it a sacredness which pre- 
pared me to salute it with becoming reverence. 
An old chronicler writes that the tablet of the 
title above our Saviour's cross they made of olive 
because it betokens peace, "and the story of 
Noah w T itnesseth that the dove brought the branch 
of olive, and it betokened peace made between 
God and man ; and so the Jews expected to have 
peace when Christ was dead, for they said he 
made discord and strife among them." 

These exquisite lines of Ruskin had hung it 
with poetiy as a halo and a glory : — 

"I challenge the untravelled English reader to tell me 
what an olive-tree is like. I know he cannot answer my 



In and about Tunis. 47 

challenge. lie lias no more idea of an olive-tree than if 
olive-trees grew only in the fixed stars. Let him meditate 
a little on this one fact and consider its strangeness, and 
what a wilful and constant closing of the eyes to the most 
important truths it indicates on the. part of the modern 
artist. Observe a want of perception, not of science. I 
don't want painters to tell me any scientific facts about 
olive-trees ; but it had been well for them to have felt and 
seen the olive-tree ; to have loved it for Christ's sake, 
partly also for the helmed Wisdom's sake, which was 
to the heathen in some sort as that nobler Wisdom which 
stood at God's eight hand when he founded the earth and 
established the heavens. To have loved it even to the 
hoary dimness of its delicate foliage, subdued and faint 
of line, as if the ashes of the Gethsemane agony had been 
cast upon it forever, and to have traced, line for line, the 
gnarled writhings of its intricate branches and the pointed 
fretwork of its light and narrow leaves inlaid on the blue 
field of the sky, and the small rosy white stars of its 
spring blossoming, and the beads of sable fruit scattered 
by autumn along its topmost boughs, the right in Israel 
of the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow, and, more 
than all, the softness of the mantle, silver gray and tender, 
like the down on a bird's breast, with which, far away, it 
veils the undulation of the mountains, — these it had been 
well for them to have seen and drawn, whatever they had 
left unstudied in the gallery." 

I saw scraggy, famished specimens in Southern 
France, and said to myself : "It is too far west 
for them here. I must wait till we reach the 
Orient, and then I will see them, lush and juicy, 



48 The Storied Sea. 

full of the familiar haile d* olive associated with 
salads the world over.'* They are a low-limbed, 
stunted race, gnarled and twisted in growth ; so 
scrubby and rusty as to give the same impression 
that scant fare and hard living give to the pinched 
faces of a stunted race of men, — say the Irish 
peasants. The first close acquaintance I had 
with them was in North Africa, and I felt imposed 
on, that such low-lived bushes had been held up 
by poets and saints, who ought to have had the 
truth before their eyes, as forming rich and 
shady arcades of delicate leafage. They were 
the genuine olive green, however, — the dull, 
dark shade fashionable among ladies who affect 
charming selections of color ; and the subdued 
bronze green casts a sombre, dusky shadow. 
But do not call those haggard, meagre, wrinkled 
shrubs trees in the hearing of a Western woman, 
used to the forest kings of the Mississippi 
Valley, — the grand old beeches, with hoary 
trunks, immovable against wind and storm as 
columns of sculptured stone ; the oaks, dewy and 
fresh at noon, their far-reaching branches, like 
patriarchal hands, extended in blessing. 

Tunis is not, as I had fancied it, built on the 
site of ancient Carthage, but fullj^ two hours' ride 
distant. I had a fond dream there of riding on 



In and about Tunis. 49 

swift Arab steeds, shod with fire, such as sweep 
with thing mane and tail through Oriental song 
and romance ; but we .were obliged to content 
ourselves with the scriptural ass. In the cool of 
the morning (not that it was cool), we set out, 
a merry party of four, on donkeys, each with its 
attendant runner, who poked the wretched crea- 
tures with sticks sharpened for the purpose. 
The donkey gait is racking and tiresome, a 
forlorn contrast to the anticipated Arabians, 
gentle as a woman, easy as a cradle, fleet as the 
wind ; but, then, what is experience but another 
name for disappointment? The sun made glo- 
rious a clear cut rocky range which bounds the 
horizon ; and the bare, craggy Jebel Rasas, or 
mountain of lead, did its best to look bright and 
precious in the keen white light. It is the boldest 
point in the Tunisian landscape which catches 
the eye and holds it above the dull, widespread 
monotony of color below. The name is not a 
misnomer, for it was worked by the Carthagin- 
ians two thousand years ago, and afterward by 
the Romans ; and a few Arabs, in dingy turbans, 
still picking and pretending to work at the 
dark chambers in the mountain-side. 

We left the walled city and passed unchallenged 
the unkempt, ununiformed soldiers which con- 

4 



50 The Storied Sea. 

stitute the Bey's defenders, and were at once in 
the open country, which had the peculiarity of 
being destitute of roads, except one to the Bey's 
Palace of the Bardo, about three miles off. We 
ambled slowly along a bridle-path, through the 
disappointing olive orchards, coated with dust, 
moving Indian file and in Indian silence, for the 
excursion was proving wofull3 T unlike our antici- 
pations. Venerable aloe-trees, with their gigan- 
tic flower-stems, fenced in worn-out patches of 
ground, poorly cultivated, }^et showing the pome- 
granate, with its fruit a glowing scarlet ball, and 
purple figs, which should be more delicious than 
the} T are, they look so luscious and inviting. Our 
rough path of uneven clay at intervals brought 
us near the Mediterranean bank ; and the clear, 
exquisite tint of the sparkling sea enchanted the 
sight with its restful blue. As the day advanced, 
the sand-hills were like heaps of heated burnished 
metal, and we all wished we had provided our- 
selves with thick veils, or, better still, antiquarian 
goggles. Gradually the poor huts and poorer 
gardens disappeared, and we entered an open, 
dreary, empty plain, marked by what might be 
called a single trail. Our guide rode on ahead, 
and, while we were tiying to recall and make 
useful chapter and verse of the Punic wars, 



In and about Tunis. 51 

he waved his hand, the vivacious Greek, and 
shouted, " Carthago." The boys whipped up 
the bony donkeys ; we reached Aristides, who 
stood witli head uncovered while we looked about 
us. There was no column, base, or capital, no 
arch or cornice, frieze or foundation stone. As 
the children say, there was " no nothing." Well 
has Cato's menace been fulfilled: Delenda est 
CartJiago. We had the sensation of one who 
has run to a fire and found it put out before his 
arrival. The ground was irregular and broken 
with depressions here and there, but no ruins of 
tli,' great city that for a hundred years rivalled 
Rome, and with her disputed supremacy of the 
seas from the islands of the Hellespont to the 
Pillars of Hercules. Corners of brickwork pushed 
out through the poor soil, spotted with splashes 
of crumbling plaster, not of Dido's city, but ves- 
tiges of the Roman Carthage built by Cresar 
and Augustus and made the capital of Africa. 
It was destroyed in G98 by the Arabs and left 
not a wrack behind. 

4 * Let us have a fire and make a cup of tea, 
that there may be something in the place where 
Carthage is not," said our leader. 

••The best thought advanced yet," said Thalia. 
" But where shall we find a cooling shadow in 
this weary land?" 



52 The Storied Sea. 

We looked about. There was no rock, no 
wall, no hill nor mound high enough to cast a 
shade ; no tree, not even a despised olive or 
famished fig, which lives on starvation. Our 
well-kept raptures were not to be expended on 
the site of the haught}* city, and we tamely 
followed the guide into a cavernous hole, with 
vaulted roof, the remains of the antique cisterns 
of Carthage, where robbers burrow in winter. 
The Bedouins had left ashes of old fires in tiny 
heaps on the floor, and the arch above was smok}-, 
showing long use. There was nothing to dis- 
pute possession of the den, and one runawa}^ 
scorpion was the sole tenant. An Arab bo}-, 
with lean and hungry look, who had hung round 
us all the way from Tunis, now appeared, holding 
a few twigs of brushwood, which he fanned into 
a cheerful blaze with a scrap of palm-leaf; and, 
really, the sight of flame and smell of smoke were 
the most welcome sight we had in this classic 
spot. The fifth donkey, a scraggy little beast, 
about the size of a Newfoundland dog, was 
brought ; a Persian rug was unloaded from his 
back ; various cans, boxes, and packages, and the 
tea-caddy (which the traveller in the East soon 
learns to love) were strewed over the floor. 
That was a new experience, picnicking in the 



In and about Tunis. 53 

water-tanks of Carthage ; and eggs, sardines, 
bread, grapes, and sweet oranges made a feast 
fit for the king. I doubt if our predecessors ever 
enjoyed a noonday lunch half so much. Over- 
head was a hillock rising above the subterranean 
arch, perhaps twenty feet from the empty level. 
On it or near it must have stood Hannibal, 
Marius, Scipio, in the dim old historic years, 
when the bare blank country was a crowded city^ 
in the midst of the garden and granary, the rich 
corn-lands of Africa. Here it was the lamenting 
Dido invoked the three hundred gods, and said 
to Sister Anna she was tired of the azure heaven 
above. Here 

" Beneath the sky 
A lofty pile being built, of tarry pine 
And ilex split, the queen hangs garlands round, 
And crowns the pyre with funeral leaves, and lays 
Thereon the robes and sword ; and on the couch 
His effigy; well knowing what would come." 

Unhappy queen ! ^Eneas was not worth her 
tears even : but she gave him her life. It is 
comforting to know she never existed, she who 
appears more real to the traveller than the con- 
querors who followed each other like dim phan- 
fcoms of the past. 

Said Antiquary, speaking as one having author- 



54 The Storied Sea. 

ity : u The latter-day luxury and riot of Rome 
came from the East. Gladiators had no part in 
her exhibitions till the Punic wars, and, though 
the Imperial City overturned Carthage and Cor- 
inth, it was greatly influenced by them both. 
The Carthaginians were from Tyre, the Shemitic 
race. They were dreadful idolaters. " Moloch 
was one of their chief gods." 

" The Sunday-school Moloch?" asked Thalia. 

" The same," replied Antiquary, with a wrin- 
kled smile, which made him look like the dried- 
apple dolls on sale at country church festivals. 
" A brass statue, with hollow body, fire inside. 
The arms, red-hot, received the child, who 
struggled and fell into the coals beneath the 
base. Sometimes, when battles failed, the gen- 
erals did not scruple to offer prisoners, and even 
their own soldiers, in sacrifice to the terrible 
deity." 

They deserved destruction," I said. 

" Yes ; they were alwa}'S faithless and treach- 
erous. The army was an army of mercenaries ; 
the seamen, slaves chained to the oars, who 
never left the galle3 T s. Their generals valued 
men as ours do perfect machinery. The old 
battles must have been murderous, for after the 
battle of Cannae three bushels of rings were taken 



In and about Tunis. 55 

from the frozen fingers of Roman knights and 
sent by Hannibal home to Carthage." 

Thalia reclined on the Persian rug at ease, 
resting her back against a loose pile of brick- 
work, and we disposed ourselves comfortably as 
we might in the broken cistern which sheltered 
from the noonday sun. " It is too hot to go out 
yet. Tell me some story about this place," said 
the beauty : " my mother tried to hire me to read 
Rollin, but I never got beyond Egypt." 

"The best thing that can be told of all that 
tim2 is the stoiy of Regains. 'Tisan old tale 
and often told, but never worn out. There was 
no man in this dead city fit to loose the latchet of 
his shoes, and such was the stern old Roman 
virtue that the most constant of Rome's enemies 
trusted the most unrelenting of her officers with 
a boundless faith. Such men are of those who 
are born to rule the world ; from the beginning 
elected to the divine right, crowned and anointed 
at their birth. 



l?^Sg5g5E5 E5gg^gg5E5H^5^5^^^^^ZSZ5E5g5B5g5aEgSg5H555g5H Fn 




[^■E5E5E5ESE5S5S5E5E55SS5E5S5S5S5E5BS55E5ESE5S5B5ES-E5E5E5E5E555E5SSS 



V. 



A DAY IN CARTHAGE. 




jjUT about Regulus," said Antiquary, walk- 
ing up and down the narrow cistern 
cave. "In the fifth }~ear of "his cap- 
tivity an embassy from Carthage was sent to 
Rome, and he accompanied the ambassadors, 
under promise to return to his prison if the pro- 
posals offered were declined. Many an orator 
has spoken, and many a poet harped and sung, 
how, when he reached his own city, he at first 
refused to enter it, because he was the slave of 
the Carthaginians. When brought before the 
Senate, which received him with the honors he 
had never failed to deserve, he declined to give 
an opinion, as he had ceased by his captivity to 
be a member of that illustrious body, being de- 
graded to the level of a slave. At length, when 
persuaded by his countrymen to speak, he im- 
plored the Senate to acknowledge no peace, and 



A Day in Carthage. 57 

to decline even an exchange of prisoners. When 
he saw them wavering from their desire to redeem 
him from captivity, he said the enemy had given 
him slow poison, which soon would send him unto 
the silent majority. And at last, when the Senate, 
through his pleadings, refused the offered terms 
of the Carthaginians, he resisted the prayers of 
his friends to remain in Rome, false to his word, 
and returned to Carthage, where a martyr's death 
awaited him. It is told he was placed in a barrel 
lined with spikes of iron, and was rolled over and 
over till he perished. Others say that his eyelids 
were cut off, and he was then thrown into a dark 
dungeon, from which he was suddenly brought 
out and exposed to the full rays of a burning sun. 
It is not clearly known, — only that he made him- 
self a place among the immortal names. 

" The Roman spirit is dead here. It went out 
with the republic ; but it still lives in our own 
country. If President Lincoln had been kid- 
napped, as was at first intended by the rebels, I 
do believe he would not have counted his life dear 
unto himself could it have been weighed against 
the safety of the republic. He, too, would have 
implored the Senate to submit to no ignoble 
terms, and would have gone back to the black 
bread and carrion of Andersonville, sharing its 



58 The Storied Sea. 

slow poison with the lowest soldier, dying in un- 
speakable filth and miser}', rather than treat with 
rebels. The heroism of the high Roman was not 
nobler than that of the plain man of our prosaic 
age, in homely guise, working out the grand re- 
sults to which he was ordained. But he is too 
near our eyes for the lights of airy and remote 
distance ; and no color of fable tinges the name 
and fame of the man who led us in stormy times, 
— the shepherd of his people." 

After a pause he resumed : — 

Ci They were stout fighters, those old Cartha- 
ginians. In the last siege of the city, vessels of 
silver and gold were given for arms, and posses- 
sion was battled from street to street with the 
energy of despair. Dead bodies were used for 
ramparts ; the fire lasted seventeen days ; and 
even Scipio was moved to tears at the utter 
wretchedness of the powerful city. 

"On the very hillock above us, perhaps, he 
repeated the words of the Iliad over the flames : 
' The clay shall come when sacred Troy shall 
perish, and Priam and his people shall be slain.' 

" It was here the women gave their hair for 
bowstrings. Thalia's rich, silky locks would 
have made a very Cupid's bow for a swift-flying 
arrow." 



A Day in Carthage. 59 

I looked at her, and she was fast asleep. The 
tlHrd Punic war is altogether too much for the 
woman who does not like study. We forgive 
everything to beauty ; and the delicate, girlish 
shape, made of the refined clay of which Nature 
is most sparing, rested against the Persian rug 
like the pictures of the gentle Mohammedan 
Peris, who subsist on perfumes, mainly "musk. 
No one disturbed her siesta or resented the slight ; 
and while I watched her the gentlemen rambled 
out in search of a white stone with which to mark 
the da} T , but failed to find one worth stooping to 
pick up. The temples, amphitheatres, forums, 
have passed from sight ; nothing remains but the 
storied sea and the proud harbor, where the 
countless fleets lay anchored. All, all gone, 
the grandeur and the glory ! 

My reader who visited the Centennial may re- 
member, in the Tunisian Department, an ancient 
mosaic from the floor of a Carthaginian palace. 
The design was a lion, and the make rude and 
uneven. Maybe the wearing centuries had rubbed 
away some of its polish ; but I am free to main- 
tain that specimen of Carthaginian art was a dam- 
aging blow to my early notions of the pristine 
splendors of the Orient. Still, good judges pro- 
fessed to believe it was an admirable work. You, 



60 The Storied Sea. 

my beloved, must make your own choice. All 
beauty is in the eye of the gazer, and no one can 
judge for another. 

Long after the Phoenician Carthage had been 
swept away, after the Roman city- ceased to exist, 
after the Vandal and the Arab, came here armies, 
gorgeous, magnificent, upholding the emblem of 
peace for the most merciless of wars. In 1248 
St. Louis of France and his three brothers re- 
ceived from the Abbey of St. Denis the pilgrim's 
scrip and staff and the sacred oriflamme, dele- 
gated to him by the holy men who were forbidden 
to use arms personally, to be borne before the 
abbot in battle. The king sailed, with his barons 
and vassals, haughty and defiant, and arrived in 
Cyprus with fifty thousand men, bearing banners 
that u bloomed with crimson," resplendent with 
jewels and gold. Each feudal baron had the right 
to his own standard in the field ; and in the rosy 
island, sacred to Love and Beauty, the mailed 
armor of the knights, made of glittering rings, 
gave back the mildly tempered sunlight of that 
soft region of poetry and romance. All that 
skill could devise in the way of ornamentation 
of shield, sword, lance, was wrought into the 
arms of the later Crusaders. Gunpowder has 
blown away much of the pomp and circumstance 



A Day in Carthage. 61 

of glorious war ; and historians unite in testi- 
mony that a more gallant army never took the 
field than that which went out on the eighth 
Crusade. 

Egypt was the object of Louis's first attack, 
the deliverance of Palestine being hoped from the 
conquest of the land of Mizraim. A storm dis- 
persed his fleet soon after leaving Cyprus ; and 
the royal division, in which were nearly three 
thousand knights and their following, arrived off 
Damietta before the rest appeared. The shores 
were lined with the Sultan's troops. The un- 
earthly din of their horns and kettledrums struck 
the French with dismay ; and the splendor of 
their arms of barbaric gold was so brilliant, that 
w * when the sun shone on the commander, he 
seemed like the sun itself." The counsellors 
urged Louis to wait for the rest of his army ; but 
the pious and intrepid monarch waited not for 
his impatient knights, tossing on the stormy sea. 
Harnessed in complete armor 5 a shining shield 
pendent from his neck, lance in hand, and the 
consecrated oriflamme borne before him, he leaped 
the waves breast high, among the foremost 
who reached the shore. The Mussulmans fled in 
panic, and the French quietly took possession of 
Damietta : but the enemy rallied and returned in 



62 The Storied Sea. 

great numbers, and, after a bloody struggle, the 
French were routed. The king, separated from 
the rest of the army, was captured, with the 
whole of his nobles, and ransomed with ten thou- 
sand golden bezants. Thus closed the eighth 
Crusade, in bitter lamenting that the very bloom 
and flower of chivalry had been sacrificed in 
vain. 

The appalling situation of Christian forces in 
Asia Minor determined King Louis to put his for- 
tunes to the touch in a final enterprise. He sum- 
moned his barons and knights, some of whom 
cursed his folly, and refused to join him. He and 
his three sons then put on the cross for the last 
time. He was old and gra} T ; but his faith was 
clear, and his unbending will had not begun to 
waver. His host was numerous, and his plan 
was first to subdue the Moslems of North Africa. 
Accordingly, he encamped near Tunis ; and his 
camp was vari-colored, radiant with hundreds of 
banners floating on the warm winds. Ever} 7 sort 
of arm, device, and ensign fluttered softly in the 
breeze, that blew now from the desert, now from 
the sea. Instead of victory, there was waiting 
for him the pestilence which walketh in darkness 
and waste th at noonda}\ Here, on the site of 
old Carthage, the Christian king added one more 



A Day in Carthage. 63 

renowned name to the still slopes on Fame's 
eternal camping-ground. He died of malarial 
fever, August 25, 1270. Many a minstrel and 
Troubadour of his time sang how Louis, ninth of 
his name, la}' dying on a bed of ashes, the words 
6 'Jerusalem! O Jerusalem ! " the last on his 
white lips ; and how his weeping knights be- 
wailed him and shrouded him in the lilied flags, 
the crowned helmet, sword, knightly spurs, and 
cross-marked shield upon his coffin. For six cen- 
turies the grave of the king was neglected, though 
he was canonized as a saint, and His portrait hung 
with the most illustrious of the palace galleries of 
France. 

In 1830, the time of Charles X., a treat} T was 
made between France and the Regent of Tunis, 
containing a special article by which a site for a 
monument of St. Louis was ceded forever to the 
King of France ; but the kingdom was in revolu- 
tion, and not till 1841, in the reign of Louis Phi- 
lippe, was the present memorial chapel raised. 

We walked to see it, — a small, graceful struc- 
ture of white stone, hardly equal to the monu- 
ments that brilliant people usually devote to their 
beloved dead. The garden in which the chapel 
stands was doubtless the site of the ancient 
Byrsa, or Citadel. It contains Roman inscrip- 



64 The Storied Sea. 

tions and reliefs of the Imperial Era, found by the 
French in course of excavation. 

The old Crusader sleeps well. Env} 7 and 
malice no longer whisper that the motif of his 
life was not alwa} T s above reproach. At this late 
hour we cannot separate the subtle links which 
combine good and bad passions, and the human 
heart is kindly disposed toward the warriors of 
every grade who battled for the Holy Sepulchre. 
His errors of deed and judgment are forgiven. 
What a mixture of romance and nonsense, of 
splendid achievement and pure folly, is in the 
dazzling and useless valor of that period ! 

The Crusades did one good thing for the 
unborn generations, of which eloquent orators 
occasionally speak. They have furnished end- 
less debates for ingenuous youth in the land of 
the free and the home of the brave. Still is the 
question discussed, and the wrangle contended : 
Were they or were they not beneficial to man- 
kind? And were Peter and Godfrey, Richard, 
Raymond, and the rest, of the number of those 
who had uplifted the human race, when their life- 
withering marches were closed, "and a mourn- 
ful and solitary silence prevailed along the coast 
which had so long resounded with the world's 
debate " ? , 



A Day in Carthage. 65 

That was the golden age of the Troubadours. 
Poetry was the delight of high and low, and the 
world was mad with music. With no friend but 
his harp, the wanderer strolled from town to 
town, from court to cam}), getting supper and 
bed literally for a song. Every one remembers 
the sweet story of Blondel and the captive Rich- 
ard of the Lion Heart, himself a Troubadour. 
Among the lovers of the gay science were two 
kings of France, princes, counts, and knights 
unnumbered. What a contagion the pleasant 
madness was while the craze lasted ! It de- 
manded leisure, enthusiasm, and vivid imagina- 
tion. Our old earth has grown too cold, too 
tired, too commonplace for such an epidemic, 
and now the struggle for bread is too sharp. 
We have one final hint and dying reminder of 
those ancient harpers — Brudder Bones and his 
merry men, last of the gentle race of Trouba- 
dours. Near Carthage, in a lonely spot rarely 
visited, sleeps a wandering minstrel of our own 
times, whose one immortal song has been heard 
wherever the English language is spoken. Like 
the roving singers of lovely Provence, many times 
he had nothing but his harp. John Howard 
Payne was a gay Bohemian, extravagant in taste, 
lavish in expenditure ; living much, too much 

5 



66 The Storied Sea. 

u 'mid pleasures and palaces," yet with a vein 
of sadness down deep in his heart, an unsatisfied 
longing for rest never found except in the narrow 
house appointed for all living. He died while 
holding the office of consul, and a plain marble 
slab, sent out b}' the Government of the United 
States, marks the grave of the homeless man, 
sixty years a wanderer on this earth, the author 
of " Home, Sweet Home." 2 

One winter he was without money or credit, 
and in London had not where to lay his head. 
He tried to quiet the pain of hunger and home- 
lessness b}' looking in at windows and from the 
areas scenting good cheer. It was Christmas 
Eve, the snow fell fast, the wind was sharp and 
keen. At one luxurious house the hungry man 
stopped and watched the lighting of the Christ- 
mas tree. Its candles streamed brightly on the 
pavement, and among the evergreens he could 
see the red berries of holly, the toys and gar- 
lands, and the pretty heads of children. They 
danced and clapped their hands while the presents 
were distributed, and the air rang with shouts, 
laughter, and screams of delight. When the 
merriment had spent itself a little, one young 
girl went to the piano and struck up " Sweet 

1 The remains have since been removed to the United States. 



A Day in Carthage. G7 

Home," while the happy family joined in a rousing 
chorus. Was ever contrast so bitter? 

I have this from Mrs. Consul General Heap, 
on whose head be the blessing of those who en- 
tertain strangers. Payne told it to her long after 
those evil days were passed. 

Strolling over the spot where Carthage is ?iot, 
we deeply felt that ours is the continent of Hope 
and this is the continent of Memory. Here one 
does not need so much as to stamp his foot to 
call up ghosts of the past and people space with 
spirits whose names are a gloiy which fills the 
earth. The sun sank behind mysterious hills, a 
rocky range, with long low outline, marking the 
limit of the melancholy desert. They were over- 
shadowed by veils (sa}', rather, a radiance of 
tinted mists), bright as plumage of birds or hues 
of flowers ; amber, amethyst, and carmine, of 
unspeakable beaut}'. Suddenly, out of the fading 
lights fell violet shadows, such as one never sees 
in harsher climes. The sea was a sea of glass, 
mingled with fire. 

Grecian peasants say that on the field of Mara- 
thon, certain nights, the neighing and trampling 
of steeds is heard and phantom horse and rider 
appear in the open plain, " come like shadows, 
so depart." Thus it was spectral armies marched 



68 The Storied Sea. 

awa}^ with us from the dead city. They were 
swifter than eagles ; the # y were stronger than 
lions, — serried hosts, in the purple and gold of 
Rome, never breaking, with hoof- beat or steel 
clash, the spell of that 4t calmest and most stillest 
night." Of its exquisite loveliness I hardly trust 
myself to speak. A tropic air rippled the bay, 
and, silently donkeying along through the lumi- 
nous dusk, I thought of the lines a greater than 
Virgil wrote : — 

"In such a night 
Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand, 
Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love 
To come again to Carthage." 

The dew of the sea cooled the thirsty land ; 
the moon on the sand lay soft as snow. Under 
that divine radiance the troubled earth was lulled 
to rest, hushed as if rocked to sleep by the beat- 
ing heart in the bosom of the sea. The heavens 
bent low. Paradise was brought near. The don- 
key boys ceased their hallooing ; solemn silence 
all, save the low tinkle of a bell where a goat 
browsed under a famished fig-tree, which had 
cast its untimely fruit. In the Arab camp a few 
red coals glowed, a burning spot in the colorless 
plain. 



A Day in Carthage. CO 

The weight of old histoiy pressed on 1113' soul 
with feeling that can never be expressed, — a 
sense of the littleness of one petty life in the 
sight of Him to whom a thousand years are but 
as yesterday when it is past and as a watch in 
the night ; of the poverty of aims which end 
with closing breath, of the emptiuess of earthly 
glory beneath the light of the heavenly, I 
thought, too, and remorsefully, of my own unwrit- 
ten life, its poor purposes, weak ambitions, griev- 
ous mistakes, failures, and looked toward the 
blue above for comfort. A few stars shone faint 
and pale through the moon's strong light. In 
the poetic belief of the Orient they are mystic 
signs in which the destinies of mortals are writ- 
ten on the everlasting tablet of white pearl ex- 
tending from east to west, from earth to heaven, 
and it is guarded by the angels. The decrees of 
God, the compassionate, are graven there ; all 
fates in the future, all events past, present, and 
to come, to all eternity. The tired pilgrim looked 
in vain. To mortal eyes that starry volume is a 
sealed book. Well are the guardian angels keep- 
ing its mighty secrets. 




VI. 



ABOUT THE AEABS. 




^T was at Tunis I had my first impression 
of the Arabs ; and as Arabia is like 
no other countiy, so the Arabs are like 
no other people. The utter solitude of accursed 
spots is pictured by this touch ; the Arabian shall 
not pitch his tent there. The wild-eyed Bedouin, 
unhindered and unharmed, but not harmless, had 
his beginnings in the land of Shinar, first gather- 
ing-place of the sons of men. Irrepressible wan- 
derers, living in strenuous idleness, whose hand 
is against every man's, of old they broke out of 
the waterless desert, to raid over Jordan into the 
green plain of Esdraelon, over the Euphrates, 
to the civic splendors and rich gardens beyond. 
From 

" the Eastern gate 
Where the great sun begins his state," 



About the Arabs. 71 

they now traverse a greater distance than from 
the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean. From the 
Sahara across the land of the Sphinx, and the 
Phoenix, through which the Nile makes a narrow 
ribbon of green, they rove and scatter into the 
great and terrible wilderness where sand-storm 
rises and simoom blows, and no road ever did or 
ever will mark its shifting surface. Six hundred 
miles of land, level as the sea when the wind 
sleeps, — well may the poets sing of the endless 
line of the Sahara and the unsearchable regions 
of the voiceless, mystic desert. Even here the 
world does move, and the melancholy silence is 
no longer broken by the songs of slaves chanting 
in mournful measure : — 

" Where are we going ? Where are we going ? 
Hear us, save us, Rubee. 
Moons of marches from our eyes 
Bornou-Land behind us lies ; 
Hot the desert wind is blowing, 
Wild the waves of sand are flowing; 
Hear us, tell us, where are we going ? 
Where are we going, Rubee ? " 

Caravans move with the dull, slow, steady tread 
of camels ; but the long files of Ethiop slaves are 
not in the rear. 

The Arab tents are, indeed, black, but comely. 
As I watched a never-to-be-forgotten sunset, three 



72 The Storied Sea, 

tents were suddenly pitched, it seemed, against 
the sky, — rising swiftly as shapes of genii rise 
from enchanted depths to startle the sight. Above 
them four palm-trees, a plumy clump, stood mo- 
tionless as mirage, every delicate leaf sharp cut 
against the shining gold. In the farness of the dis- 
tance a train of overladen camels, slow-moving, 
winding in serpentine curves across the desert 
waste, spectral, shadowy, like the pictures of the 
march of the wise men, every six camels led by a 
donkey, his driver marching beside him. 

The Arabs are the only out-door people I have 
seen who have beauty of face or grace of move- 
ment. The Oriental love of color and floating dra- 
peries finds best expression in the white turbans, 
crimson and green sashes, and floating burnous of 
the sons of the desert. I do not know if these 
came from the wilds of the Atlas or the low hills 
to the east ; but, wherever it was, the country was 
in the limitless realm of poetiy, picture, fable, 
and they were gifted with resistless fascination. 
A carpet, gay as a peacock's back, was laid in 
front of the tents. Such were the rugs Haroun 
al Raschid and his wife, Zobeide, had spread be- 
fore them all the wa} T when they made the pilgrim- 
age from Bagdad to Mecca. Such was the magic 
carpet of Hassan, which obeyed his lightest wish 



About the Arabs. 73 

and carried him, as on the wings of birds, afloat 
in the air. 

The group upon it was too remote for my see- 
ing ; but I could not doubt that among them was 
a lovely girl, with eyes like the mountain gazelle, 
and a heart as tameless. Her locks were like 
midnight, and as a piece of a pomegranate her 
temples within her locks. She was robed in 
scarfs and flowing draperies and a gauzy veil, 
which half concealed her loveliness, according 
to changeless fashions of the immemorial East. 
Thus came Rebecca to the well, and she was very 
fair to look upon, with the wedding gifts on her 
arms and in her ears, sparkling in the sun's last 
rays. It sets suddenly here, and darkness falls 
like a drop-curtain. Under the stars, throbbing 
white in the indigo blue of that night, was an 
appeal to fancy such as is never made among 
AVestern tribes, whose history, broken and frag- 
mentary, is scarcely worth tracing and knowing. 
In this new world, which is the old, is limitless 
suggestion, and at every turn there is kindling for 
memoiy and imagination. They were the camp- 
ing party I watched of the country of Job, great- 
est of all the men of the East ; and of Moses, 
when he was a stranger and a shepherd. They 
came from the refuge where Elijah fled for safety, 



74 The Storied Sea. 

and the murmuring millions of Israel — the chosen 
band bearing the coffin of Joseph — wandered in 
a pilgrimage such as never was nor never will be 
made again on earth. With their black bread 
and dates, coated with a sugary crust, these de- 
scendants of Hagar would make their evening 
meal ; and, had we chosen to claim hospitality, 
doubtless it would have been freely offered as to 
the stranger in the days of Abraham. The cus- 
toms of four thousand years are the same. Well 
has it been said, could Ishmael come again to the 
earth, he would recognize without effort his own 
people and his own land. 

While these old Bible thoughts went through 
my mind, suddenly the moving figures stopped, 
as in the act of listening. We heard nothing but 
the clumsy stumbling of the mules among the 
stones. Not a sound but that ; yet it was even- 
tide, and somewhere a muezzin was calling to 
prayer. From the airy top of lofty, remote min- 
arets the faithful had heard a voice we could not 
hear (ezari), calling, in musical, far-reaching wail, 
the pra}~er revealed in vision to the Prophet : 
" God is great ! There is no god but God ! 
Mohammed is the prophet of God ! Come to 
prajers ! Come to prayers ! Praj'er is better 
than sleep ! " All the senses of the desert-born 



About the Arabs. 75 

are remarkably acute, their eyesight is like clair- 
voyance, and their hearing appears miraculous. 
As we lost them in the distance, 1 could see their 
prostrations, bowing till their foreheads touched 
the sand, kneeling and rising again with rever- 
ence and devotion. All times and places are 
alike to them when the hour of worship comes. 
For the Prophet (exalted be his name!) says: 
" Every place on earth is given as a place of 
prayer, except the bath and the grave." I filled 
up the evening picture, — the gathering round the 
tiny fire, where they told the ancient thousand 
and one stories, forever old, forever new ; or the 
fables of JEsop, called by them Lokinan ; or the 
favorite tale, familiar in our schoolbooks, of Lle- 
wellyn and his faithful hound, Gelert, which killed 
the wolf to save his master's child, and was itself 
killed by the father, when the latter, on entering 
the hut, saw nothing but an overturned cradle, a 
pool of blood, and the dog licking his lips. 

Their rich and copious language lends itself 
readily to poetry, and often the stories there 
would be songs, possibly "very long and very 
lonesome, and about nothing in particular," or 
maybe their passionate love of music would 
have led them to bring along the primitive two- 
stringed guitar, to accompany the war-song with 



76 The Storied Sea. 

full chorus, or the soft, grave love clitty to the 
gazelle-e}'ed darling in the shadow of the tent. 
Here is one of the Bedouin songs : — 

" Her skin is like silk and her speech is low, neither redundant 

nor deficient. 
Her eyes, God said to them, Be ! and they were, stirring 

men's hearts with the potency of wine. 
May my love for her grow more warm each day, and not 

cease till the Day of Judgment ! 
The locks on her brow are dark as night, 
While her forehead shines like the gleam of the morning. 
And the rain falls not, but for the purpose of kissing the 

ground before her feet." 

Do } r ou recall any line, dear reader, of sweeter 
exaggeration than that last one ? I have heard 
Arabic music, but the melodies are harsh and 
irregular, as their verses are smooth and flow- 
ing. The lofty imagery of the Orient takes ns 
back to the first love song written to the Egyp- 
tian spouse, and the poems of the Arab are filled 
with spicery, myrrh, and balm, color, and ex- 
travagant hyperbole. The scent and soul of the 
furthest East are in them. They have brave, 
proud lyrics, full of the spirit of battle, the dust 
and the rush, the cries and clamor, and are well 
accompanied by the harsh, tense notes of the 
zithern. They sing of the ancient fastnesses of 
their own Arabia, where freemen dwell, in an 



About the Arabs. 77 

oasis of freedom, in a world of slaves ; and how 
they drink no wine in a hot and thirsty land, 
though their wounds consume them, because they 
have the promise of the Prophet (exalted be his 
name !) that the faithful shall appear in glory at 
the resurrection, with their wounds brilliant as 
vermilion and odoriferous as musk. Led by a 
beaming light, they will cross the bridge El Sirat, 
which is fine as the edge of a cimeter, and drink 
of the Lake of the Happy. It is sweet as honey, 
cold as snow, clear as crystal. There are streams 
of milk and of wine, flowing over beds of musk, 
between margins of camphor, covered with moss 
and saffron. There they will rest under the won- 
derful tree of life, Taba, so large that a fleet horse 
would need a hundred years to cross its shade ; 
and the meanest in Paradise will have seventy- 
two houris and eighty slaves, eternally young and 
beautiful forever. 

They count a man childless who has only 
daughters, and around the evening camp-fires 
they recite a most melancholy tragedy concern- 
ing the ancient custom of burying female children 
alive, practised before the coming of Mohammed, 
the beloved of God. The tale runs that a chief 
of Sinai found that among his daughters (who 
are g;ood for nothing) was one saved alive, and 



78 The Storied Sea. 

brought up by a neighboring family, unknown to 
him. She was fair as the moon in her brightness 
and obedient as the gentle lambs reared in the 
tents with the women. But the cruel father fol- 
lowed the hideous Proverbs : " To bury daughters 
is an act of mercy. ,, " An excellent son-in-law is 
the grave." He watched the chance of carrying 
her away from her adopted father and mother 
and heeded not their pra} T ers and entreaties. His 
heart was hard as the nether millstone. They 
tell with long, lingering pathos how she hung 
round her unnatural father's neck, and with ter- 
rible minuteness relate how the mother swooned 
away, but dared not interfere ; how, at last, even 
the flinty nature of the chief was moved, but not 
far enough to save the child, and the only tears 
he was ever known to shed were over the little 
ewe lamb, laid in the living grave, when she 
reached up and brushed the grave-dust off his beard! 
Heroic songs are the favorites, and old men im- 
provise readily. These reciters, going from camp 
to camp, as did the Rhapsodists of Greece, keep 
the unwritten literature of the furthest East ; the 
legends and traditions, which are loaded with im- 
agery ; prose and verse, truth and fable, mixed 
in the strangest way, making rich and exquisite 
composition. Stories are current of how armies 



About the Arabs. 79 

have been stayed and cities saved by the sudden 
apparition of one of these Raids, with his poetry 
and his two-stringed guitar, chanting to charmed 
ears some old tale of woe and wrong, or some 
wise, measured strain on the changing fortunes 
of men. 

They are not always grave and sober as the} r 
appear. The Ishmaelite, the hating man, is not 
without a dash of humor in his wild blood. Here 
is one of their tales of a certain Caliph of splen- 
did renown, who died long ago, when the Islam 
world was young. He had many palaces, with 
shady fountains ever playing among rings of 
roses, wild, dark gardens, cooled b} T rushing 
waters, running over sands of gold. The Com- 
mander of the Faithful had made the holy pil- 
grimage to Mecca, and kissed the heavenly stone, 
which was once a pure white jacinth, but has 
grown black with the kisses of sinful mortals. 
He had drunk of the sacred well Zemzem, re- 
vealed in mercy by the angel to Hagar, and he 
dwelt in the peace of the blessed. His dishes 
and goblets were of gold, and his tent, when he 
journeyed, was a silken pavilion. He had his 
story-tellers and his dwarfs, dancing girls, and 
singing women, with musical instruments, and 
hundreds of slaves, whose lives were in his hand. 



80 The Storied Sea, 

His heart was warm and at rest. One day he 
caught a glimpse of a girl with a wandering 
Bedouin horde. Though dressed in the striped 
cotton of Yemen, she was like the sun in its 
brightness and the moon walking among .the 
stars, and from the hour he saw her he neither 
slept nor ate pleasant bread, for love of her. 
Vainly did his wise men comfort him, saying the 
rose from the garden of beauty should be his, if 
it was predestined, because fifty thousand years 
before the creation everything was registered in 
the book of Destin} r , and what is not fated can 
never come to pass. Commit thine affairs unto 
Him the all-powerful, who spread out the heavens 
and the earth. The enamored Caliph was a 
bold believer in the theory that the unchangeable 
destinies had decreed, preordained, never to be 
cancelled, his right to the almond-eyed houri in 
the dress of striped cotton. So he sent officers on 
steeds shod with fire after the uncle of the girl, 
who demanded twenty thousand golden dinars 
for the virgin treasure. It was given without 
words, and the Caliph thought it all too little for 
the budding rose, beautiful as the four perfect 
women with whom Allah has deigned to bless the 
earth. u The women are all an evil," said Abu 
Beker, the conqueror ; " but the greatest of all evils 



About the Arabs. 81 

is that they are necessary." The Damascus pal- 
ace, with its marble floors and latticed windows, 
had little charm for her who trod the desert in 
nn trammelled freedom, and whose vision had been 
bounded by the line where earth and sky meet. 
The Palace of Delight was only a palace of fears. 
She pined for the black tents, the long march, the 
evening bivouac among her homely kindred ; and 
her imperial and imperious husband overheard her 
singing, half in sorrow, half in scorn, these lines 
of her own composition : — 

"A tent wherein the breezes flow- 
Is dearer than a palace fair. 
A crust upon the floor below 

Is clearer than the daintiest fare. 
The winds that in each crevice sigh 

Are dearer than these drums I hear. 
An ' Abbah ' with a joyful eye 

Is dearer than these gauzes here. 
A dog that barks around my tent 

Is dearer than a fawning cat. 
The camel foal that with us went 

Is dearer than a mule like that. 
A boorish cousin though he be, 

Too weak to- work on my behalf, 
Were dearer, dearer far to me 

Than yonder clumsy, rampant calf." 

The last couplet enraged the august Caliph, al- 
ways victorious, and he tore off the Broussa silks 



82 The Storied Sea. 

and gauzy veil of his unwilling bride, and, giving 
her the old striped cotton gown and leather slip- 
pers, he rained curses on her bare head and sent 
her back to the desert again. But she went out 
laughing into the torrid waste, and, when at a 
safe distance from the Summer Palace, she pulled 
off the slippers and threw them back, in token 
of her contempt for the high and mighty Com- 
mander of the Faithful, his treasures of jewels 
and silks, his camels white as milk, and horses 
with saddles stitched in gold, his menservants and 
his maidservants, and everything that was his. 

Native talent for rigmarole asserted itself 
rather strongly up there. The night following the 
day spent at Carthage, I dreamed of the gazelle- 
eyed houri in the shadow of the tent, lovely 
enough to be the daughter born of the bridal of 
the earth and sky. I was deeply mortified and 
taken aback to learn next day that the pictorial 
group, her fiery kinsmen, camped in the shade of 
the palm grove, were a gang of g}'psies. One 
sneaking scamp from among them tracked us half- 
way to Tunis, in hope of finding a chance to rob 
a straggler. Fortunatel}', I did not mention my 
fancies — so vivid, } T et so weak — to any one but 
you, my reader, and I know the secret is safe 
with you and will never go any further. 



{P^S5B5S535S53S^S5S5S5S5SSSS3S3SS5SSS5S5SSB 





VII. 

DOING A LITTLE SHOPPING. 

MOOR from the bazaars with Mecca 
scarfs," said the polyglot courier at 
the Hotel d'Orient. I descended to 

the wide cool entrance-hall, a shady place, with 
stone floor and columns, and tiled wall, on which 
run verses of the Koran, inscribed in gilt letters 
on an azure background. In a land which knows 
little rain and never feels frost, its broad palace- 
like emptiness is inviting, albeit with a sense of 
homelessness to the AVestern traveller. At the 
furthest end, in the heavj- shadow of magnolias 
without and lemon-trees within, stood a tall, 
straight, slender figure, his white turban in clear 
relief against the bright blue, — the Moor with 
the Mecca scarfs. It is to be deplored that the 
influence of France in the East has exchanged 
graceful Oriental garments, flowing robes, and 
ample draperies for the rigid armor-like suits of 



84 The Stoned Sea. 

the Parisian. This man I saw was true to the 
fierce traditions of his race, and was armed, as 
well as clad in the rich vestments of the gorgeous 
East ; a barbaric magnificence, suited to the un- 
conquered people who never crouched before 
sovereigns, who had yoked kings to their char- 
iots as beasts of burden, of whom the might}' 
Cambyses had to beg leave to pass through their 
dominions, and on whom even Sesostris and 
Cyrus could not impose conditions. 

Imagination rallied from the stunning blow it 
had over night (from the gypsies, you remember, 
dear reader), and my very ideal of one half- 
civilized Asian prince stood before me, the hero 
of the most pathetic of human compositions. 
The noble Othello ! For the first time I under- 
stood the gentle lacty wedded to the Moor ; how 
she could fall in love with what she had feared to 
look upon. By the bluest of seas, in some cool 
marble hall, with arabesque roof like this, Desde- 
mona leaned against her father's breast to listen 
to the stories of regions of fable, mysteries, 
sorceries, and dim enchantments. Her house- 
hold cares despatched in haste, she hung breathless 
on his words, her soul in her ears, tremblingly 
at first and in silence, rapt and gazing. "Her 
father loved me, oft invited me." This hero from 



Doing a Little Shopping. 85 

the glowing zone came into her smooth, quiet, 
domestic life, like some brilliant tropic romance, 
and as the tragic tales went on, of feats of broil 
and battle, of moving accidents by flood and 
field, all the currents of her being set toward 
the regal stranger, who says, " I fetch my life 
and being from men of royal siege." He was 
robed in a sort of exotic grandeur by his princely 
bearing and military renown. That such as he, 
high-born, brave, and proud, should be sold to 
slavery, pained the innocent young heart and 
moved the hero to beguile her of her tears, 

" When I did speak of some distressful stroke 
That my youth suffered." 

The passion for the marvellous and visionary is 
strong in women closely kept and guarded, and 
the shy, sensitive maiden was drawn as bj' subtile 
magnetism. He was not the tyrant of an Eastern 
seraglio ; even Iago admits he was of a constant, 
loving, noble nature, till, being wrought, he dis- 
closed the fierce fire of passion which flames in 
the blood of these children of the sun. Hers was 
the love which casteth out fear. She asked no 
questions, required no pledges. 

" She loved me for the dangers I had passed, 
And I loved her that she did pity them.'' 



86 The Storied Sea. 

Swifter than light these thoughts flashed through 
my mind as I went down the stone stairs. Below 
the white turban I saw an olive face, with thin, 
sharp features ; above, the e} T es, those wonderful 
Asiatic eyes ; the jet-black brows almost met ; a 
beard of inky blackness, carefully smoothed, hid 
his throat. A short jacket, stiff with gold thread, 
was worn open in front, showing a vest embroid- 
ered with silks and stiff with gold ; white linen 
trousers buttoned at the ankle ; a variegated sash 
of vivid dyes, wrapped several times round his 
waist, held in place silver-mounted pistols and 
the crooked j'ataghan, in his hand a dreadful 
weapon. 

A sort of handkerchief thrown over the turban 
had been removed and la} T on the stranger's left 
arm, a manj'-colored mass, mainly crimson, with 
loose, long fringes in rich confusion, gay as the 
scarf of Iris. The Moor was strikingly handsome, 
picturesque, and dignified. He saluted by placing 
his hand on his breast, then touching it to his 
chin and forehead ; a pretty movement, w T hich 
has displaced the many prostrations and slow 
obeisances which were anciently the fashion 
among Orientals and still obtain in holy Damascus, 
the earthly Paradise of the Prophet. These men 
usually pick up a little French, but the noble 



Doing a Little Shopping. 87 

Othello had only two words, " Madama Ameri- 
cana," -'-the interpreter must do the rest. His 
pack of goods lay on the floor, like that of the 
New England pedler of a past generation; but, 
instead of hideous black oil-cloth or dirty old 
bed-ticking, the silken stuffs were enveloped in a 
square of buff cotton, a vine of green leaves 
wrought on its fringed edge. This was no pert, 
brisk Yankee trader with whom I was about to 
deal. I knew he would be slow as eternity ; but 
I had ample leisure, and was not going to be over- 
reached by him or any like him. Not I. Not 
if I know myself. 

" Would Madama Americana be seated?" with 
a stately bow. She would. He then unrolled 
the bale and produced a gay little rug, which he 
spread for my slippered feet. He next brought 
a cigarette from his pocket, and not so much as 
saying, "By your leave," puffed away. " Ma- 
dama" does not smoke? " he said inquiringly. I 
replied my early education in that direction had 
been neglected. He nodded, much as to say, 
" Madama misses it mightily and is to be pitied." 
Be then -lowly drew out from the bottom of his 
pack a second rug, and seated himself on it' 
quick as a wink, bringing his feet under him in 
a compact pose, impossible to one not to the 



88 The Storied Sea. 

manner born. The lithe, agile Arabian was used 
to the gesture, and the action had its owh grace. 
I was forewarned. I knew these men have small 
capital and no credit ; their whole stock of mer- 
chandise may be in the single bundle of modest 
size, bought out of a Greek brigantine for what 
he could pay and read}' to be sold for what he 
could get. I knew the dealer would ask a tow- 
ering price, hopelessly high, would lower inch by 
inch, and end by taking something in reason ; 
besides, I believed the interpreter would give me 
a hint and not see me swindled, though he was 
an attache of the Hotel d'Orient. 

The noble Othello smoked in silence, sitting 
perfectly still. My patience and the cigarette 
were giving out together ; as I was about to rise 
and leave, he tossed the cigar-stump into a small 
brass basin for the purpose standing near, and 
returned the amber holder to his pocket. He 
then drew his pack toward him, with the air of a 
man with abundant leisure and not to be hindered 
in the enjoyment of it, unfolded a short, wide 
scarf, and, with careless nonchalance, threw it on 
the striped mass covering his left arm. From 
that lustrous background it looked snowy white. 

" It is from the sacred city of the Prophet, (may 
his name be extended far as the sand reaches !) 
and is made of the finest twilled silk." 



Doing a Little Shopping. 89 

I examined the fabric with cave. It was very 
pretty, with striped gilt border and a thin gold 
fringe at the ends. When words are filtered 
through, an interpreter, any needless speech seems 
folly. " What price? " I asked. 

He named a sum equal to about forty-five 
dollars. I shook my head ; but he regarded the 
shake coolly, as though I had shaken at the 
remotest stars. Evidently he was quite indifferent 
whether I bought or not. He went on serene as 
summer, smooth as society polish could make a 
man, this one whom we call barbarian. 

" Will Madama lay the happy scarf round her 

head and throat, that she may feel its fine soft- 

3, like the furs of the north? It was made 

for the Princess Fatima Hammoun, niece of the 

Khedive of Egypt/' 

1 Then how did you get possession of so costly 






a prize \ 

" Ladies in the harems are sometimes short 
of money." said the unconcerned trader, softly, 
waving the gauzy silk in air. " The Madama 
Americana may strike off my head if I speak not 
the truth. Perhaps this will suit her better." 
He -hook out a long, light woollen shawl, of dull 
apple-green. Ci Such was the turban of Moham- 
med (exalted be his name !) when in the heat of 



90 The Storied Sea, 

battle he raised it on a lance and made the green 
banner forever sacred." With stately reverence 
he inclined toward the royal colors and laid it by 
the white scarf. 

"What price?" I asked. 

u Seventy-five dollars." 

I shook my head with energy. " Possibly 
Madama Americana would like some towels? 
Here are the towels of Damascus, embroidered 
with gold. They come from Araby the Blest, and 
are fresh from the last caravan." 

" Will they wash ? " 

" Forever. The silk is the best of Syria, and 
the broidery was laid on in delightful gardens by 
the flowery banks of the Pharpar. It will be 
shining ten thousand years hence, as now, and 
is such as Ayesha, the beautiful wife, worked for 
the Apostle of God. Will Madama make me 
proud to look at them? The Bey of Tunis has 
this da} r ordered fifteen dozen, as a present to the 
Sultan Abdul Hamid the Beloved. May he sleep 
safe in the Yiidiz Palace, by the Bosphorus." 

Real^, this pedler of the East had the imagi- 
nation of a poet, the grace of a courtier, and the 
will of a conqueror. Again I thought of the 
fatal handkerchief in the hand of the Moor of 
Venice, in whose web there was magic, — 



Doing a Little Shopping. 91 

" That handkerchief 

Did an Egyptian to my mother give. 
She was a charmer. 

The worms were hallowed that did breed the silk, 
And it was dyed in mummy, which the skilful 
Conserved of maidens 1 hearts." 

These people manage to give a fictitious value 
to each piece of merchandise they offer. Like 
the handkerchief spotted with strawberries, it has 
associations more precious than the goods. It 
is antica — that is, antique — from some old 
mosque, or a facsimile of one worn by goddess, 
queen, or sultana, or other august personage, 
whose very name stirs the fancy. The noble 
Othello leaned his back against the wall, resting 
from what toils I could not know. "Are }~ou 
from the khan of Sadullah Bey ? ' ? I asked. " Sa- 
dullah buys of me," said the unmoved merchant, 
in haughty scorn, eying his small bundle with 
pride enough for a whole Magasin du Louvre. I 
think the Arabian was irritated at the question, 
for the luminous eyes glowed like burning coals. 
A dead pause of five long minutes, and he began 
again. k * Madama sees here the choice things fit 
for those who live in the shadow of lofty palaces ; 
but remember," he said gravely, as he slowly 
refolded the green banner, "four things come 



92 The Storied Sea. 

not back, — the spoken word, the sped arrow, the 
past life, the neglected opportunity. Thus sayeth 
the proverb." The golden embroidery was in 
mystic hieroglyph along the edges of the holy 
flag. "From the Koran," said the Moslem, de- 
voutly sliding a lean brown finger along the 
lines : " pure gold — it will never dim, and water 
does not tarnish it, nor time, though it last ten 
thousand years." 
s* /"It is too dear. I ma}' look at the towels 
/ again." He lifted one and threw it on the near 
fl divan. "This is from Bagdad, — from Bagdad, 
the land of Aladdin, of Sindbad and Zobeide, Sche- 
herezade, the rose and the nightingale, of ivory 
and amber, spicery and richest merchandise. The 
tempter saw my wavering. Those keen eyes lost 
nothing and marked every shade of change, with- 
out seeming to see anj'thing. 

"Beware of the neglected opportunity," said 
the born-and-bred fatalist, beguilingly. "God, 
the merciful, ordains all things, and onty once 
in a lifetime come the great chances, according 
as Kismet has prepared them. Allah kcrim!" 

By this time the servants of the hotel, several 
idlers and travellers, had come round to watch 
the trade, and formed a ring, of which the Moor, 
the interpreter, and your correspondent were the 



Doing a Little Shopping. 93 

centre. Not a word was uttered nor a sign made. 
They looked on intently, apparently anxious, as 
though the fate of thousands was in the venture. 
I sent an appealing glance at the interpreter, 
who pretended not to see. I could not spend the 
whole day in bargaining. The delay was tedious ; 
the situation embarrassing to a woman not used 
to Eastern ways. ;i What for the towel?" 

u The towel from Bagdad ? Twelve dollars." 

" Too much." 

" Then will Madama make an offer? Ameri- 
can as are princesses. Their money comes easy 
and goes fast. Offer?" 

" Six dollars," I said hastily, for I wanted to 
get rid of the man, and he had stayed so long I 
felt obliged to buy something and " Jewing" is 
not rny forte. It was the Moor's turn to shake 
his head now, which he did in melancholy and 
decorous fashion, not tending to unsettle the tur- 
ban folded with graceful coils above the olive 
forehead, which it nearly concealed. The neg- 
lected opportunity — was I missing it? A towel 
from Bagdad is hot in market every day, and 
it would be a nice souvenir. The chance was 
passing, the supreme moment, the neglected op- 
portunity. 

" six dollars ! " I said recklessly. 



94 The Storied Sea. 

m 

" I lose money," said the melancholy man, im- 
ploring by mournful accent and wistful gesture. 

"I cannot help it," I retorted, warming with 
the clay. " You need not sell if you don't 
w 7 ant to." 

" A man hard pressed must take what he can 
get. It is Kismet. The towel is yours. It will 
please Madama's friends across the sea, beyond 
the Straits. May it be like the enchanted car- 
pet of Boudressein, which brought a fresh good 
fortune to its owner every morning." 

u Have I seen your stock of goods ? " 

u You have," he replied, much as to sa}', " The 
world is at your feet ; what moro can mortal 
ask?" The interpreter counted the mone} T , the 
crowd broke away, smiling and jabbering in half 
a dozen languages, and one Neapolitan remarked 
in French : " A runner from Sadullah Bey's. A 
man not pleasant to meet, if one has anj'thing to 
lose." The noble Othello alone preserved his 
calm dignity, and in silence made his courteous, 
profound salaam. When his few goods were 
gathered, he leaned his back against the wall, 
after the manner of people who love repose, look- 
ing little like one ready to mount horse and draw 
sabre for Islam, willing eveiy hour to die for his 
faith. Somehow the noble Othello's bearing made 



Doing a Little Shopping. 95 

me feel like a robber, and, with a sense of guilt, 
I turned to the stairs with the spoil. My heart 
sank. My feminine reader will weep with me 
when I tell her the first unfolding of the Persian 
towel revealed several stout coffee-stains, which 
added dirt to the yellow tint which dulled its 
beauty and freshness. What a forlorn purchase 
I had made ! Had I been cheated by a strolling 
pedler, after all the warning fingers lifted at me 
on both sides the sea? I? I? 

Thalia was lying in wait for me on a divan in 
the balconied window. I have a shrewd suspicion 
she had been listening over the banister, but she 
looked innocent as a baln\ There was no chance 
of hiding the bargain which had been conducted 
with so much dignity and ceremony. I walked 
toward her, trying to assume a careless manner, 
and plunged boldly into the subject by flaunting 
the embroidery before her eyes, thereby revealing 
two holes hidden with consummate art and a 
wretched spot where the fringe stopped short at 
one end ; and oh ! what were those mysterious 
dots all over the scant and meagre fabric? 
Thalia smiled such an ironic, blighting sarcasm 
of a smile as I never saw in her face before. It 
covered me with confusion, and made my splendid 
Bagdad towel dwindle and shrink to the propor- 



96 The Storied Sea. 

tions of a doyley. " Ah ! I see your rage for an- 
tiquities again. This has arrived at the antique, 
without becoming a gem, hasn't it?" She held 
it up to the light, which it slightly obstructed, 
showing a "body" like the sleazy stuff our 
grandmothers used to make milk-strainers of. 

"Don't }'ou think it's rather — rather thin?" 
she continued, the dimples deepening in her 
cheeks. "And, dear me, what did xow pay a 
fly-speck?" She broke into the gayest laugh in 
the world. 

I reddened with vexation, but was dumb. 
She took the Bagdad towel in her two little hands, 
gave a slight jerk, and the rotten old thing split 
from one end to the other. 

" Really, now, that is too bad ! I bought this 
as a souvenir for you, a sample of Oriental mag- 
nificence, and you have gone and ruined it ! " 

"Thank you, kindly," said the spoilt beauty, 
burying her laughter in the pillows ; "but I al- 
ways prefer my dish-rags without tinsel." 




VIII. 




THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM. 
PART I. 

T was in the land of crumbling cities, 
strange religions, deserted fanes ; of 
quiet men, in twisted turbans and long 
beards ; of placid women, with faces shrouded 
like the faces of the dead, as pale and as calm. 
Tranquil prisoners, with respite to drive and 
walk about the streets, and for a brief space of 
time escape bolt and bars, in charge of armed 
attendants. A land silent as though Time him- 
self had dropped to sleep and broken his emptied 
hour-glass. 

By the bluest and clearest of seas there is a 
deep bay, where the navies of the world might 
ride at anchor. The sweeping curves of its shores 
are drawn as by an artist's hand, and from its 
margin rise terraced heights, like the hanging gar- 

7 



98 The Storied Sea. 

dens of -Babylon. Toward the west are hills, 
with capes of olive green, from which the breeze 
blows deliriously cool in the hottest days. Away 
to the south tall, slim minarets point toward the 
glittering god of the ancient Persian, and dwarf 
the rounded domes below by the ethereal grace 
of their tapering spires. Close to the water's 
edge stands a palace worthy the golden prime of 
Haroun al Raschid, nobly built of white and pink 
marble, the latter brought from Egypt. In the 
distance, under a sky that would be dazzling 
were it not so soft, it shines like a temple of 
alabaster and silver. 

Its crowning glory is a central dome, rising in 
peerless beauty, like a globe of ice or of crystal, 
and seeming to hang in air. Mirrored in the 
glass}' water, the plume-like pillars and slender 
turrets are a picture to make one in love with its 
builder. He had the soul of an artist who meas- 
ured the span of its rhythmic arches and told the 
heights of its colonnades, harmonious to the eye 
as choice music to the ear. He must have toiled 
years to embodj- in this result his study of the 
beautiful. The architect was a Spaniard, and he 
had the same creative facult}' (this man who 
worked in formless stone) that the poet has who 
brings his idea out of hidden depths, polishes his 



The Light of the Harem. 99 

work with elaborate care, nor leaves it till every 
line is wrought to perfect finish. Under a des- 
potic government architecture that is magnificent 

nourishes, though all other arts languish. Among 
a semi-civilized people kings prefer this expres- 
sion of power, because it is readily understood, 
demanding no instruction, no book or guide. He 
who runs may read, be it the stupendous monu- 
ment of Cheops or the any pinnacles of Solvman 
the Magnificent. The wish is to give form which 
shall compel the entire people to admiring aston- 
ishment of works they cannot hope to imitate. 

Let us call this the Palace of Delight, for there 
dwells in the luxury and aroma of the furthest 
East Nourmahal, the Light of the Harem, and we 
were invited to see her, — the bulbul. the rose, 
the Pearl of the Orient, the bride of Prince Fe- 
ramorz. Dear reader, do you know how come 
the brides in this strange country? Do you 
think it a wooing of an innocent, laughing girl, 
who, as in lands of social freedom, lays her light 
hand, with her heart in it, in yours? A prize 
won iu an emulous game, where beauty is weighed 
against all beside which the world has to offer, 
and he who has the right divine may carry her off 
from Love's shining circle to be the centre of 
another of his own creation. There was no flavor 



100 The Storied Sea, 

of American matches in this betrothal, no hint of 
golden afternoons in shacly lanes, nights of moon- 
lit silence, and dreams better than sleep, of wed- 
ding bells in festal rooms, and orange flowers 
that leave a sweetness outlasting the waste of 
years. Nor w T as it like European marriages, — 
say the French or Italian, — where a demure young 
girl is taken from the convent, and by her parents 
given to the most eligible parti, of whom she is 
not allowed an opinion, whom she sees not one 
hour alone till after the ceremon}', in which her 
dot is the first, second, and third consideration. 

Nor 3'et is it brought about like the weddings 
in kings' palaces, b} T negotiations for babies in 
the cradle, long, tedious betrothal, interviews at 
proper times, in proper places, and presences 
appointed, where exact proprieties are observed 
by the happy or unhappy pair. Nor was the con- 
tract made as of old, in plains not very far 
distant from this, w T hen Abraham sent out his 
most * trusted servant as a business agent — a 
travelling man, if 3-011 please — seeking a bride 
for his son Isaac. B} r no such devious windings 
did our princess come to the altar. The lovely 
Nourmahal was bought at private sale for ten 
thousand pieces of gold, and thus the marriage 
was accomplished. It is not our business to 



The Light of the Harem. 101 

inquire whether the bargain was made in the 
shadow of the black tents of the Bedouin, or on 

frosty heights of Caucasus, or in some ver- 
dant vale in Arab}' the Blest. It was to a better 
condition, came she from dissolute races, like the 

trgian or barbarian hordes, like the Tartar 
and Circassian, where the bride's portion is a 

pskin, a sack of barley, a hand-mill, and an 
earthen pan. It was a moment of melancholy 

achantment when I first learned how she had 

'led the rank and power of princess, by what 
means been lifted from desert sand and gypsy 
rider down and silken luxury, and 
made a true believer, walking in the paths of the 
faithful. To lie young, beautiful, and beloved is 
Heaven : Bhe was this. and. it was said, sweet as 
summer cherries withal. 

ir amiable inquiries about what is not our 

-in availed little. Her history was colorless 
till the fated hour came when its blank page 
should l»e illuminated and glow with tropic splen- 
dor. She was a chosen beauty; princes seldom 

in vain ; an a a men have eyes 

fair women will wear purple and Bit on 
thro 
I > . : ies v. in ten days before the 

reception, a day which stands apart 



102 The Storied Sea, 

in memory in the year 1881, in the Time of the 
Scattering of Roses, or, as we would say, in the 
month of August. 

The heaviest iron-clads might lie close to the 
quay where we landed. So pure is the water and 
so intensely clear that, at the depth of four 
fathoms, fish swim and bright stones lie as though 
close beneath the calm surface. Marble steps 
lead to the water ; and when our little boat nearecl 
them two sentinels, moveless as statues, appeared, 
clad in the picturesque costume of the Tunisian 
kavasse ; all gold embroider}' and dazzling color, 
even to the holsters of pistols and the sides of the 
long-topped boots. A wall, perhaps thirtj- feet 
high, made of rough stone, was broken by a gate 
of iron, light as network, evidently of French 
construction. Its double valves flew open at our 
approach, and as quickly closed when we entered 
the garden. Two jet-black attendants were in 
waiting, from that degraded class of men to whom 
princes safely trust their treasures. The word 
u harem " means " the reserved," and these were 
part of the reserve guard, — hideous Ethiops of 
the extremest type, with flattened nose and lips, 
— swollen rolls of dingy flesh. Their misshapen 
skulls were hidden by that singular formation 
called a fez. When the Creator gave these crea- 



The Light of the Harem. 103 

tares life, he denied them nil else. Condemned 
by nature to a perpetual mourning suit, they had 
revenge in gorgeous costume, which must have 
been consoling. To perfect their ugliness, both 
were badly pitted with small-pox. After the 
long-continued obeisances of the East, they stood 
with folded arms and downcast eyes, fixed as the 
ne lions beside the irate. 

The garden was small, the narrow walks paved 
with black and white pebbles, laid in graceful 
Arabesque patterns, rimmed with a fanciful bor- 
der of tiles. We had scented, out in the hay, 
the heavy fragrance of roses we call damask : 
:' bloom, crowded in beds or lining alleys 
reddened by their blossoms. The terraces were 
high and narrow, their sheer sides hanks of ivy, 

ysuckle, and myrtle; a tangle of running 
vines giving the feeling of wildnessand seclusion. 
in its untamed, luxuriance. There the acacia 
"waved her yellow hair," most exquisite of n 
delicate a - >me high-born lady, a frail beauty in 
her trembling lace-work of fine leaves. Beneath 
its branches was a swing of manilla cord, with 
a cushion tasselled and fringed with gold. Bees 
hummed, butterflies darted through the air like 
j, and humming-birds hovered over 

purple hells of a creeper to me unknown. 



104 The Storied Sea. 

Up higher were dense shades of laurel and lemon, 
pomegranate, with scarlet buds, close thickets of 
bay and of citron, walks set with daisies and 
violets, bordered by heliotrope and lavender. 
Highest on the hill, accented with clear outline 
against the speckless sapphire, stood the round- 
topped cedars of the Orient, reminders of Leba- 
non, and the palm, swaying its green plumes. 
Most honored of trees, for, says the devout Mos- 
lem, " Thou must honor tlry paternal aunt, the date 
palm, for she was created of the earth of which 
Adam was made." In the centre of the garden 
a fountain threw a glancing column sk}*ward and 
fell in an alabaster basin, where gold fish swam 
among white lilies and the azure lotus of Persia. 
A tiny stream, brought from the snowj^ sides of 
some distant mountain, ran in wayward grace 
over vari-colored pebbles, laid with studied care- 
lessness and nicest attention to effect, a copy of 
nature. On its rim a long-legged stork stood, 
intent on his pre}'. A miniature pavilion, a 
gracious retreat from the sun, was roofed with 
vines, from which hung pendent the scarlet pas- 
sion flower. Oh ! it was beautiful ! beautiful ! 
All flowers consecrated by poetiy, religion, and 
love grew there. Even the rough wall was 
covered like the verdurous wall of the first gar- 



The Light of the Harem. 105 

den, which lay eastward in Eden. Could it be 
possible the trail of the serpent is over it all? 

Rather let me believe it the Earthly Paradise of 
the Prophet or the Paradise Regained of the 

Christian. 

We could not loiter, for Nourmahal was wait- 
ing. From the entrance hall to which men are 
admitted, called "the place of greeting," slave 
girls emerged to meet us and drew up in lines, 
through which we passed. We crossed an outer 
court, open to the sky, with cool marble pave- 
ment, under an arched way, to a hall covered 
with India matting. Beyond was a spacious 
rotunda, a fountain dancing in the centre under 
the dome, which rested on pillars of lapis lazuli. 
I counted eight fragile supporting columns of 
bright blue veined with white. Overhead were 
traceries in blue and gold, pendent stalactites, the 
" honeycomb ceilings " of the Moorish kings ; the 
tints of the Alhambra were in the inlaying of 
main' colors, and gilt texts of the Koran on the 
walls. The builder had that most romantic of 
castles in heart and eye when he planned the 
Palace of Delight. We slowly crossed the circular 
space (everything moves slowly here), stopping 
only to admire a sultana bird, with purple breast, 
in an ivory cage, and a few white doves, that 



108 The Storied Sea. 

with many a flirt and flutter bathed in the bright 
water or on the rim of the pool, cooed and twined 
their beaks together, with outstretched wings, 
undisturbed by our approach. Beyond was the 
reception room, called Dares-Saadet (Abode of 
Felicit}'), where the Pearl of the Orient was to 
be seen. It was screened by a portiere made of 
Lahore shawls, figured with palm leaves, ele- 
phants, and pagodas, — a quaint and costly dra- 
per}', drawn back for us to pass under. As we 
entered, a crowd of slave girls formed lines, 
between which we passed ; young natives from 
the mountains of the Atlas, with vicious eyes 
and sidelong glances. One was a light mulatto, 
with crisp hair and downcast look, reminding me 
of the old da}s of slavery. The}' were dressed 
in cheap, gay, checked silks, made like our morn- 
ing wrappers ; belts of tinsel, large silver ear- 
rings, with grotesque heads of animals in front. 
White muslin turbans covered their heads, their 
hands were thin and wiry, and they bore the 
meek, passive manner of all women of the East. 
Two sides of the room were of glass, the one 
overlooking the bay latticed with iron, painted 
white, which banished the prison look it would 
otherwise have. Velvety rugs of Bochara and 
Korassan were laid here and there over the floor 



The Light of the Harem. 107 

of blue and white mosaic. A broad, low divan 
of pale blue silk ran round the apartment. Voila 
tout. No pictures on the marble walls, no books, 
no bric-a-brac, no trumpery tc collections," ceram- 
ics, aesthetic trash, grave or gay, nor muffling 
hangings. These are not Oriental luxuries ; but, 
instead, a cool, shady emptiness, plenty of space 
for the breeze to flutter the gauzy curtains and 
carry the echo of the plash and drip of the 
fountains. 

At the furthest end, reclining on pillows of silk 
and lace, rested the lady we sought. One little 
foot, in red velvet slipper, was first seen below 
wide trousers of } T ellow silk ; a loose robe of 
white silk, embroidered with gold thread, was 
partly covered b}' a sleeveless jacket of crimson, 
dotted with seed pearl ; a broad variegated sash 
wound the slender waist. Half concealing the 
arms was a light scarf, airy as the woven wind 
of the ancients. A head-band, with diamond 
pendants, fringed her forehead ; a riviere of dia- 
monds circlea the bare throat ; and here and 
there solitary drops flashed in the braids of her 
night-black hair. Among the billowy cushions 
and vaporous veilings rose the young face — oh, 
what a revelation of beauty ! — uplifted in a curi- 
ous, questioning way, to see what manner of women 



108 The Storied Sea. 

these are, who come from the ends of the earth, 
with unveiled faces, and go about the world alone, 
and have to think for themselves, — poor things ! 
The expression was that of a lovely child, waking 
from summer slumber in the happiest humor, 
reacty for play. A sensitive, exquisite face, fair 
as the first of women while the angel was yet 
unfallen. A perfect oval, the lips a scarlet 
thread, and oh, those wonderful Asiatic eyes ! — 
lustrous, coal-black, long, rather than round, 
beaming under the joined ej'ebrows of which the 
poet Hafiz sings. 

The edges of the eyelids were blackened with 
kohl, which Orientals use to intensify the brilliance 
of the brightest eyes under the sun. The most 
common kind is smoke-black, made by burning 
frankincense or shells of almonds. Sometimes 
an ore of lead is used in fine powder. Our Ameri- 
can girls make a miserable bungle of it, smearing 
the whole eyelids, giving a ghastly and unnatural 
effect, veiy different from the thin line of anti- 
mony, applied by a probe of ivory, dipped in 
the powder and skilfully drawn on the tip edges 
of the lids. 



IX. 



THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM. 



PART II. 



i 




OURMAHAL did not rise, but held out 
one jewelled hand, dimpled as a baby's, 
with nails and finger-ends dyed pink 
with henna, — five clustering rosebuds. The magic 
of beauty made us her subjects. TTe kissed the 
little ringers loyally, and yielded ourselves willing 
captives, ready to be dragged at her chariot- 
wheels. My life-long notions of the subjection 
of woman (see Stuart Mill) and the wretchedness 
of prisoners pining in palatial splendors vanished 
at the first glance ; went down at a touch, like 
the wounded knight in the lists of Templestowe. 
She smiled, and hoped we were well ; then followed 
suitable inquiries as to health and journeys, and 
expressions of the charm of finding it all out. 
Our interpreter was an Armenian lady, with the 



110 The Storied Sea. 

gift of tongues. When conversation is filtered 
through three languages, it becomes very thin ; 
even such bold and spirited remarks as, " This 
is a happy daj T for me ; 1 shall never forget it," 
was robbed of half its spice and flavor by the 
time it reached the ear for which it was intended. 
I ventured the high assertion that we had sailed 
six thousand miles on purpose to lay our homage 
at her blessed feet ; which rhetorical flourish was 
received with a childish nod at about what it was 
worth. Somehow, she did not seem so enchanted 
with her new worshippers as the} T were with her. 
It appeared the Beauty had never seen the sea 
except from shore. 

" What is it like when you are in the middle 
of the dark water ? " 

" Had she seen the Great Desert?" 

" Yes, many times, and had trembled when 
awful columns of dust swept across it, moved by 
the wings of evil genii." 

"It was like that; wide, still, a desert of 
water more lonely than any land." 

"Do man} T people drown there? " she asked of 
the mjsterious horror. 

44 Very few. You would have no fear." 

" Because I shall never go on it," she said 
triumphantly, and laughed, showing teeth like 



The Light of the Harem. Ill 

pomegranate seeds, and shook the diamond drops 
on her forehead, so delighted was she with the 
simple wit. 

Suddenly changing her tone, she asked, " Why 
do }~on wear black dresses? " 

I have never seen an Eastern woman, of high 
or low degree, in a black garment of any make. 
Even their shoes are gayly embroidered. Dismal 
and coarse three elderly women, in the conven- 
tional black silks and poke bonnets, must appear 
to one clad in elegant draperies of various and 
brilliant dyes, whose eyes ever rested on tints to 
which the rainbow is dim. 

"It is the custom of our country for women 
to go out in black," we answered. 

4 - How sad!" said Beauty; and it did seem 
sad in that light and lovely room, all sunshine 
and vivid color. We were in love with her, 
and again declared our love. She accepted the 
admiration as one well used to such extrava- 
gance, and clapped her hands after the fashion of 
ladies of the u Arabian Nights." At the signal, 
the slaves disappeared, except one old woman 
and the Negroes, silent as ghosts, beside the 
Lahore drapery. In a few minutes five slaves 
returned, each carrying a small round table of 
cedar, inlaid with scraps of mother of pearl. Five 



112 The Storied Sea. 

others followed, with lighted cigarettes, lying 
each in a silver saucer ; and coffee in tiny 
cups, about the size of a giant's thimble, resting 
in a silver filigree holder, set round with dia- 
monds. 

"My new friends have come so far," said 
Nourmahal, u they must be tired. Take a cig- 
arette and refresh yourselves." 

I rather awkwardly adjusted the holder of 
amber and ventured one faint whiff. Imagine 
my astonishment at seeing my friend, whose 
name with difficulty I suppress, puff away like a 
dissipated old smoker. The Armenian was native 
and to the manner born. Nourmahal smoked, of 
course, and a lulling calm succeeded the excite- 
ment of the brilliant conversation reported above. 
While feeling round in my brain for a subject of 
common interest adapted to our hostess's capacity 
and mine, I tried a sip of the coffee. It was strong 
enough to bear up an egg, thick with grounds, 
and bitter as death. I pretended to deep enjoy- 
ment of the dose, and sipped it, drop by drop, to 
the bitter end. 

Nourmahal clapped her hands again, and the 
ten virgins took away the saucers. I think none 
of them were foolish, for the} r fell into line with- 
out effort, each one treacling in the footsteps of 



The Light of the Harem. 113 

her predecessor, at an interval to avoid her 
train. 

Presently they returned, with gold-fringed nap- 
kins and silver cups of sherbet, flavored with 
quince, and a conserve of rose-leaves. Wishing 
to appear easy as possible and thoroughly Oriental, 
I trilled with the delicious nectar, cooled with 
snow, anil was not half through when the attend- 
ant picked up my table of cedar and pearl and 
disappeared with it. How I regret not having 
swallowed the Olympian food at railroad speed, 
for it was the first ice I had seen for many 
months. It is not court etiquette to ask receipts, 
and, after a sigh of regret for what I shall never 
taste again, I returned to the fascination of a 
triple-tongued conversation. 

"In this charming palace you must be very 
happy. How do you pass the time?" 

The dimples deepened in the cheeks of Beauty. 
"Pass the time, pass the time?" she dreamily 
repeated, playing with the knotted fringes of her 
scarf. " I do not pass it, it passes itself!" and 
again she laughed, and the laughter was sweet as 
the tenderest voice can make it. 

" Are 3*ou fond of music? " 

Three ladies in black : iC Oh ! very ! " " Oh ! 
very!" "Oh! very!" 



114 The Storied Sea. 

" Then you shall be amused." She clapped 
the rose-leaf palms, and in marched eight wo- 
men musicians (we saw no men that day but 
the harem guard), bearing stringed instruments. 
Curious-looking things, like overgrown violins 
and half-finished guitars, and a round shell, with 
strings across, beaten with two sticks. 

Didst ever hear Arabic music, beloved ? 

No ? Then never hast thou known sorrow. 

Since Jubal first struck the gamut, there can 
have been no improvement in these compositions. 
How long the exercises lasted I am unable to 
record ; but I do know we grew old fast under 
the beat, beat, hammer, hammer, in the terse, 
unmeaning notes of the banjo. In the brief 
interval, at the end of a peculiarly agonizing 
strain, sung by the mulatto, I seized the moment 
to ask what were the words of the song, and was 
told it is a serenade, very ancient, dating back to 
the Times of Ignorance, before the coming of 
Mohammed, whose tomb is covered with the 
splendor of unceasing light. I afterward ob- 
tained a copy of the madrigal and give it in 
rough translation. It is doubtful if the almond- 
eyed Juliet came down from her lattice after the 
anguish of that performance on the vina. 



The Light of the Harem. 115 

GAZZEL ; OR, LOVE SONG. 

On a steed shod with fire I come, 
And weary is my heart with waiting. 
Awakened it feels a vague unrest. 

Chorus : 

thou whose shape is that of the cypress, 
And whose mouth is the opening rosebud, 

1 am here, faithful as thy shadow. 

Thy eyebrows are the form of an arch, 
The shafts of thy lashes are unsparing, 
And the sears which they leave are bleeding. 
O thou whose shape, etc. 

Queen rose, thy slave Raschid is beggared. 
His whole heart is only one wound ; 
Smile but once and his head will touch the stars. 
thou whose shape, etc. 

After the serenade followed a battle song, which 
made our blood tingle with its fierce din. It was 
of a victorious chief, who had been far as 
Istamboul, the pearl of two seas, the possession 
of which is the longing desire of every monarch. 
The singer imitated the clanking keys of con- 
quered cities, and sang of jewelled turbans worn 
by padishas, of gold and perfumes, ivory and 
balsam, of kiosks smelling of musk, ceiled with 
cedar, and painted with vermilion. 



116 The Storied Sea. 

Then the theme changed to a melancholy minor 
key. The blight warrior, named Yilderinn, or 
Lightning, so strong and swift was he, is wounded 
and going to die ; he who, if the sky were to fall, 
could uphold it on the point of his lance. He 
salutes the black angel in the patient resignation 
to sorrow, which the Prophet of God says is the 
key to all happiness. " Weep not for him ; he is 
tasting the honey of mart}Tdom, the reward of 
those who fall fighting for Islam. Weep not for 
him who has the passport to Paradise. In place 
of two hands lost in defending the standard of the 
faith, two wings are given to bear him across the 
dread bridge El Sirat, to the blissful regions 
where sixty black-eyed houris and* endless Ely- 
sian pleasures await every true believer. He is 
passing to their gardens, the Dwelling of the 
Blest." A droning recitative, with tuneless, time- 
less accompaniment on the two-stringed guitar. 

Then came a burst of triumphant chords which 
made our flesh creep. The bright warrior has 
angelic visions and hears angelic voices : u I see, 
I see a dark-eyed girl ! She has dropped the 
flowered veil from her starlike eyes, and waves a 
handkerchief, a handkerchief of green, and smiles 
and shouts : ' Come kiss me, kiss me, for I love 
thee.' Keep watch by me to-night, O Death ; 



The Light of the Harem, 117 

come and keep watch by mc." The concluding 
line trailed off in a dying way, and died in a 
succession of heart-breaking moans. 

My smoking friend looked deadly pale, as 
though about to faint, and whispered, u An air 
from * Pinafore ' would be a relief." It struck 
me that any air would be a relief to her in that 
desperate extremity. How 1 envied Nourmahal, 
who adjusted her lace and silken pillows, and, 
nestled in them, had dropped into a gentle nap. 
When the last blow hit my tired tympanum, up 
she rose from rainbow scarfs and frothy veilings, 
like Aphrodite from the mist and foam of the sea, 
and, without apology, said to the Armenian lady, 
i4 The audience is ended." 

We were not sorry. Our limited supply of 
words forbade the giving of " views," so dear to 
the mind of the universal suffragist ; but we had 
enough to repeat offers of service and protest 
vows of remembrance, which the princess received 
in a listless way, much as to say, " This thing 
grows tiresome." I think she was a little morti- 
fied at the siesta, which led to such a protracted 
session of the rub-a-dub music. To hear is to 
obey was the law of all around her, and, had she 
slept on till morning, there was no one to stop 
the work of the band of torturers. 



118 The Storied Sea. 

As we passed out of the salon, each of us 
received a box of crimson andem wood, wrapped 
in tissue paper. " To be opened when you reach 
home," said the interpreter. 

The doves had gone to their nests, for the 
shades of evening were in the rotunda ; the sul- 
tana bird, with head under its wing, was a purple 
ball ; the moon was high over the enchanted 
garden, which the King of the Genii had made 
for Prince Feramorz. A tame gazelle, wearing a 
collar of silver bells, followed us to the gate, and 
in a fond, endearing way laid its pretty head on 
m} T arm and looked in my face. The most ap- 
pealing glance of a weai^y prisoner, longing for 
the freedom of Judah's hills, the mild thyme of 
Hermon, and the mountains of spices. Those 
eyes had a human expression, which has never 
left nry memor}\ I have seen it in the wistful 
gaze of young mothers, in the }'earning eyes of 
those who have so long mourned that the grief 
has become a softened sorrow. Well do they 
name the love song " Gazelle." 

Before the gate we suddenly paused, at the 
same instant, moved by the same impulse, and 
turned to look for one moment more on the Palace 
and Garden of Delight. We felt we should not 
see its like again, for there are few such gardens 



The Light of the Harem. 119 

in the world. The Paradise palms were whisper- 
ing their secrets, and the pines wailed in answer 
to the sea breeze as harp-strings answer to the 
harper's hand. The moonlight tipped each leaf 
with silver ; the flowers were pale, but not faded ; 
heaven and earth were still, breathless, as w T e 
grow when feeling most. A bird, a little brown 
thing, like a wren, flew out of a thicket of laurels 
and hid among the starry blossoms of the magno- 
lia. Then hark ! that wondrous note. I should 
have recognized it even if Thalia had not lifted a 
hushing linger and said, under her breath, " Be- 
lieve me, love, it is the nightingale." 

It urns the nightingale, and the voice (so sweet, 
so sweet, I hear it yet, and shall hear it at inter- 
vals forever) was more stilling than very silence. 
That wild melody was not the legendary plaint of 
the lovelorn mate, leaning her breast against a 
thorn, but rather an ecstatic strain from a soul 
so full it must tell its rapture or die. Its charm 
was past all telling, beyond the reach of words. 
Still, as I write, hundreds of miles awa} T , after 
months of rapid travel, my heart thrills with the 
echo of its ineffable sweetness. The doe (the 
winsome thing, with the haunting eyes) leaned 
heavily against my arm while we stood and lis- 
tened. Night was fallen, for in these latitudes it 



120 The Storied Sea. 

makes brief mingling with clay. It is only to 
meet and kiss in a crimson blush and part again. 
" G-ood-by forever," we said, as the lock snapped 
in the iron valves. The voice of the bulbu.l 
followed us through the perfumed dusk, like an 
invisible angel allowed to pass the guarded gates 
of Eden and cheer the homely pilgrims on their 
way. 

Freshly the breeze blew, and the briny smell of 
the sea was tonic, after the languors of the pal- 
ace. The rich and balm}' eve invited to silence. 
Under a trance we floated between blue and blue 
(whether in the body or out of the body I cannot 
tell) in the supreme delight of a day unreal in its 
poetic lights ; so like the stuff which dreams are 
made of, I sometimes wonder which was dream 
and which reality. 

From the distant minaret sounded a long musi- 
cal wail, that seemed to fall from vague regions 
surrounding us, or as a warning voice from some 
unseen world, close at hand, the muezzin's call to 
prayer. When it died away, a second voice took 
up the cry, another followed, and another, as 
trumpets answer and echo among far-off friendly 
camps. It was finer than the stirring appeal of 
bugles, clearer than the ringing bells of Christen- 
dom. These were the words wafted through the 



The Light of the Harem. 121 

ethereal haze, across the halcyon sea, revealed in 
vision to the Prophet: "God is great! God is 
great ! There is no God but God. Mohammed is 
the apostle of God. Come to prayers ! Come to 
prayers ! Prayer is better than sleep ! Alia hu ! " 

A light pleasure-boat approached, with striped 
canopy, and bearing a colored lantern, like a 
great red eye, in front. Ten men bent to the 
oars, it flew across the water, and phosphorescent 
light fell off the dripping blades like sparkles of 
fire. It came nearer, and we knew, by the cres- 
cent and shining star in the flag, it was an official 
of high rank, — the solitary passenger seated in the 
slender bow among restful cushions. The fez cap 
has no brim. As the bark shot past, we knew 
the boyish face, and caught one glance of the 
imperial eyes of Prince Feramorz. 

When the call ended, he knelt, and, without 
shame or concealment, prostrated his forehead to 
the floor, his face toward Mecca, the Holy City of 
the Faithful. Here is the prayer, named Fatiyeh, 
which pious Moslems repeat five times a day : — ■ 

" Praise be to God, the Lord of all creatures, the most 
merciful, the King of the Day of Judgment ! Thee do we 
worship, and of Thee do we beg assistance. Direct us in 
the right way, in the way of those to whom Thou hast 
been gracious, not of those against whom Thou hast been 
incensed nor of those who go astray ; " — 



122 The Storied Sea. 

the prayer which Adam uttered after his expul- 
sion from Eden, that Abraham said after his son 
was saved from sacrifice, that Christ breathed in 
the Gethsemane agony, so they tell us, as it is 
written in the books of the Chronicles. 



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X. 



THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM. 



PART III. 




HEX we reached the hotel we had a toler- 
able supper of foreign dishes, mixed with 
rice and flavorless, as that tasteless ve<r- 
etable makes everything it touches. Then in 
wrappers, comfortable as could be without ice- 
water or rocking-chairs, we reviewed the day's 
pleasure and opened our presents. Thalia's 
was an automatic bird of iridescent glass, which 
could be made to sing by winding with a key. 
My smoking friend, who, it is safe to say, will 
never smoke again, had a box of delicious French 
bonbons, which melt in your mouth, almost in 
your glance. The Armenian's was a necklace 
of Egyptian coins and filigree silver; mine a 
pendant in green enamel. I touched the spring, 
the locket flew open, and lo ! the serene, pictorial 



124 The Storied Sea. 

face of Nourmahal. I held the portrait close to 
the quaint brass lamp (an Aladdin pattern), and 
■we looked at the faultless features in unmixed 
admiration. " She is, indeed, the Light of the 
Harem," murmured the smoker. 

The Advanced Thinker, eldest of the party, 
one of the bravest of the brave American women, 
turned to her and said, "What a pity we could 
not plant a few ideas in that childish brain ! " 

" What sort of ideas would 3011 like to plant?" 
asked the other, dryly, without releasing the 
matchless face from her gaze. 

Advanced Thinker, in a tone of solemn author- 
ity : " That life is made for something more than 
being sweet and sleepy." 

"You would have her sour and wide-awake, 
then, would you? and for your sowing reap a 
harvest of discontent? Do you think it would 
help the happiness of that house to-night, when 
Prince Feramorz comes home, to find her bother- 
ing over development and evolution? She does 
all her husband demands, which is to be beauti- 
ful and kind. I know what } T ou want," she con- 
tinued, warming, and with rapidly rising voice. 
"You want her to study those awful problems 
about the fox and the greyhound, and the cistern 
with two pipes, and to read Buckle and Darwin, 



The Light of the Harem. 125 

and worry about rights and wrongs, and have 
views and give them, too, and make speeches, 
and, in short, to be wise — and wretehed." 

*• As to speeches," said the Advanced Thinker, 
also very dry, •* many are called to the platform, 
but few are chosen." (She is a first-rate leader 
in women's-rights conventions.) " Nourraahal 
should, at least, know she is a responsible being, 
and that eveiy human soul has some divinely 
appointed work, which only that one can accom- 
plish. A perfect Talmud of tradition is walled 
about these Oriental women. The}' are fettered 
with bands of brass." 

"Nourmahal is fettered with rosy garlands," 
retorted the smoker, hotly". " She is an innocent 
child, working out her destim', which is to give 
and receive happiness, to twine and vine, sing 
and cling and swing, instead of straining up hills 
more or less imaginary and battling prejudices 
old and fixed as Mount Sinai. As your own 
Joseph Cook would sa}', she is in harmonization 
with her environments. Let her alone." And 
the speaker closed the locket with an emphatic 
snap. It was as though a lovely light went out. 

It was my turn now. "Dear friend," I said, 
"do you see three lines between my eyebrows? 
Strangers newly arrived in our country declare 



126 The Storied Sea. 

they are the distinguishing feature of the Ameri- 
can woman." 

" It must be confessed — " she said, hesitating. 

" Nonsense, " I said, interrupting. " Are they 
or are they not there ? " 

"If you will have it, even the eyes of love 
must admit that three faint lines — " 

" Faint! Speak the truth, child, as under 
oath." 

" Well, to pacify you, three well-defined lines 
appear between your eyebrows." 

"Precisely. They are, as you say, well 
defined, and their definition is free agency, uni- 
versal suffrage, and aesthetic culture." 

I opened the sweet picture again and held 
it up. 

"Would you mark them in that untroubled 
face between the even brows of the youngest 
of the Graces ? " 

"Not I. A butterfly is as good in its way as 
an old hen. For my part, I find it refreshing 
to meet a woman content to be what she is, — the 
dimple on the cheek of home. She is more like 
Eve in her bower than any one I have ever 
seen. She is not made of common cla} T , but of 
bright gems, as Mohammedans say the angels 
are made." 



The Light of the Harem, 127 

" Merely a grown-up baby," continued the Ad- 
vanced Thinker, with cold, severe insistence. "I 
suppose she does n't know how to read or to sew." 
' " It would be a shame," sharply struck in 
Thalia, " to put a pen in those rosebud fingers, 
to dull the lustre of her eyes over crabbed dic- 
tionaries and grammars. If she reads the gay 
texts of the Koran on the walls, it is enough to 
live by and die by. Why harp on cerebral action 
and the ab}'sses of the unknowable? I am tired 
of all this talk about life's discipline. It is sure 
to find you out." She went on vehemently, 
raising her voice to the ledger-lines above, while 
she rolled up her crimps : " Instead of making 
the world a place of rational enjoyment, it is in- 
sisted 3'ou must have an object and go on three- 
score years working for that object ; and what 
does the object bring, but vanity and vexation of 
spirit? The words ; sense of duty' have forever 
driven out sense of love, and it is harder for each 
new generation. We go deeper and deeper into 
the toil and trouble, because the terrible duties 
keep rolling up in size and weight. Protoplasm, 
pangenesis, and the rest of it — after all, the 
world is no wiser. No man to-day writes as well 
as Job or Moses ; no woman can sing like Miriam. 
The strain on women is so severe, as the ideal 



128 The Storied Sea. 

standard grows higher, that the march of the 
ages of which we hear so much has become a 
dead march, and the records are written on stones 
over untimely graves. " 

Advanced Thinker, mildly, but speaking with 
energy: "What qualities has little Baby-face to 
hold Prince Feramorz with when j'outh and 
beauty have vanished ? " 

"He will see her still beautiful, with the eyes 
of memory and habit," replied Thalia, with ear- 
nest feeling, her blue e}'es moistening. "There 
are sj^mpathies and experiences which outlast the 
fleeting spell of beaut}' ; magnetisms bevond 
mere attractions of person. You know the old 
story, which is the best thing told of Mohammed. 
With all the world to choose from, he never 
swerved from his early allegiance to Kadijah, 
the wife of his youth, older than himself and 
never beautiful. 

" 4 O Apostle of God,' said Ayesha, the bride 
of his house, but not of his heart, c was not Kadi- 
jah stricken in years ? Has not Allah given thee 
a better wife in her place ? ' 

u ' A. fairer; but a better — never!' said Mo- 
hammed. ' Never did God give man a better. 
When I was poor, she enriched me ; when I was 
called a liar, she believed in me ; when I was 



The Light of the Harem. 129 

persecuted by the whole world, she alone was true 
to me.' " 

Thalia stopped short, blushing like one caught 
in the act of making a speech. To hide her 
confusion, she snatched a shoe-buttoner and 
began trying to unlock a trunk with it. 

" Go on, Thalia," I said to the flushed young 
speaker. " Be sure you have one sympathetic 
listener." 

''It is nothing; only to the last the banner 
over her was love. Kadijah had no rival, though 
she was skinny and wrinkled and sunburnt. You 
know what horrid old witches Arabian women 
are after thirty." 

Thalia seated herself on the low ship-trunk, 
much as to say, ct I am through now." 

The gentle Armenian seemed amused at the 
debate, in which she took no part. Like many 
another of the so-called sterner sex, it was most 
interesting to the debaters ; but she lent a kindly 
ear. A woman of large experience, graceful cul- 
ture, and broad, catholic spirit. "Let us hear 
from Armenia." said the Advanced Thinker, 
naturally lowering her tone into softness as she 
addressed the silent matron, to whom a noisy 
argument was a fresh novelty. 

" You make a mistake," she observed quietly, 
o 



130 The Storied Sea. 

in a modest way, highly contrasting with the 
assertive sentences just heard, "to suppose the 
Harem is a mere boudoir and bower, the Oriental 
wife the plaything of idle hours, living in butter- 
fly idleness. In that consecrated place are all 
the women of the household. There lives the 
mother, in Eastern countries treated with the 
utmost delicacy and reverence. The children are 
there, proudly welcomed into life and tenderly 
reared. Slavery here is not the dreadful bond- 
age you used to have in America. The girls 3 ou 
saw to-day sit with their mistress in the after- 
noon, and sew and talk with her in a patriarchal 
way you know nothing of. The Harem, the 
Forbidden Room, is the golden milestone, the 
centre of existence to the home-keeping Oriental, 
and, as such, has a hold controlling every action 
he meditates. He is deeply religious, and appeals 
to his mother for advice long as she lives. The 
women enter into every detail of the public life 
of their husbands, and are recognized as a power 
in the most difficult political affairs, as they are 
not even in fair France." 

"Do you mean to say," asked the Advanced 
Thinker, amazedly, "that in time the tender 
little parasite we saw to-day may come to know 
something of grave matters of state, and be capa- 
ble of advising in them?" 



The Light of the Harem. 131 

u I do. There are wide possibilities in that 
gentle soul, whose face is forbidden to the thoughts 
and eyes of all men but one. To borrow the 
words of a Christian missionary of Scutari, 4 Any 
one who has a private scheme to advance, a 
policy to develop, an office to gain or to keep, 
a boy to provide for, or an enemy to crush, sends 
his wife to the harem of a grandee. Women 
here bring about the most astounding results. 
All a Moslem's spare time and money are given 
to adorning the k reserved place ' where he is the 
sole male communication with the outer world, 
and no other living man enters the screened 
portal without his leave. Even an officer of 
justice dares not set foot there, and ancient usage 
respects a man's seclusion in the harem to the 
degree that messengers w 7 ait and despatches are 
unopened while the master's shoes are in sight 
before the guarded door.' " 

"These are new ideas to us," said the Ad- 
vanced Thinker, meekly and in a subdued man- 
ner quite mortifying to see. 

44 1 testify to what I have seen," said the 
Armenian, with her rare smile. " The tents of 
the Arab women are sacred places, a halt in a 
restless, roving life, where the man, incurably 
wild, turns for rest and quiet. I, moi qui vous 



132 The Storied Sea. 

park, have seen that no people are so kind to 
children as the Bedouins are. The}' never scold 
or strike them ; the son of a sheik is nursed and 
petted in the chiefs tent all day long ; and, in 
more than one tribe, it is in the women's tents 
that the politics are settled. You know there is 
a vein of poetry in even the lowest of the tribes, 
and the Arab calls his wife the keeper of his soul, 
— a pet name, sweet and strong. Depend upon 
it," added the gentle lady, more positively, 
u women of the East have their influence and 
authority, not maintained in the same wa} r , but 
held quite equal to the power of the women of the 
West." 

Thalia gave the Armenian a grateful glance. 
"Thank you for righting us on the woman ques- 
tion in this latitude, where soft voices and gra- 
cious manners are the rule and seem to come by 
inheritance, instead of teaching." 

Here the Advanced Thinker started up, and 
charmed our sleepy ears with one of her keen and 
sparkling home speeches. She is a wise woman, 
and you, my beloved, have probablv heard her in 
the lecture-room and agreed with her. 

Let me not weary you with the conversation, 
which lasted far into the night, and set us to 
thinking there might possibly be slight flaws in 



The Light of the Harem. 133 

our boasted social science and polished civiliza- 
tion. In the solitude of my own room I pondered 
the subject alone. Looking out, for a good-night 
to the stars, throbbing white in the steel-blue sky, 
by a strange association of ideas I recalled a 
sentence of Thackeray, which has clung to mem- 
ory through many changes : " We are Turks with 
the affections of our women, and have made them 
subscribe to our doctrine too. We let their 
bodies go abroad liberally enough, with smiles 
and ringlets and pink bonnets to disguise them, 
instead of veils and yasmaks ; but their souls 
must be seen by only one man : and they obey not 
unwillingly, and consent to remain at home as 
our slaves, ministering to us and doing drudgery 
for us." 

The spirit of peace brooded the waters ; the 
winds were whist, the waves were still. A pale 
glimmer in the east heralded the coming day. 
Sirius was in the zenith, the brightest thing in 
the universe of God ; the morning stars were 
out ; the setting moon hung low on the horizon's 
edge. 

Good-night to the lights above, and to the 
Light of the Harem, as well. Again I unclasped 
the miniature and gazed on the faultless picture. 
A cherub face, without the cherub's chubby 



134 The Storied Sea. 

squareness of outline ; eyes soft as those of her 
own gazelle, as winsome, as artless, but not so 
sad ; rather the smiling eyes of Mona Lisa, before 
which we wait, thinking in another moment the 
parted lips will say u Good-morning. " The Alad- 
din lamp w r as dying, and I thought a blessing on 
the sunny head and spotless soul which had never 
known sorrow or strife. 

Suppose I could, would I haye the heart to 
reduce her to our prosaic and wearing leyel in the 
hard, familiar ruts ; to giye the king's darling a 
taste of the bitter fruit from the tree of knowl- 
edge ? 

Would you, dear reader? 




XL 



BYRON. 




X the old Protestant cemetery at Rome, 
hard by the Pyramid of Cains Curtius, 

is the grave of Keats. His epitaph — 
" Here lies one whose name was writ in water" — 
was the dying wail of a broken heart. In that 
hour his fame appeared the dream of a sleeper, a 
message dropped into darkness ; and among the 
gathering shadows of death he beheld, in pro- 
phetic vision, the dread phantom Oblivion. 

He is one of the many poets whose illustrious 
names appear in the wavy lines of the Storied 
Sea. The\' are not transient records, and Byron 
disputes the ancient supremacy of Homer. His 
spirit walks abroad in the moonlight, in the star- 
light, from the Pillars of Hercules to the home of 
the obscene Harpies, where the Black Sea dashes 
against the Cyanean rocks. On that mighty 
tablet the name of Childe Harold is written, and 



136 The Storied Sea. 

over it the years have no power. At the distance 
of more than half a century, along the Lido of 
Venice, the guide points the favorite road where 
at evening galloped the reckless rider, whose 
fever of heart and brain no touch of cooling 
hand or balmy airs could quiet. Among the 
violet vales and orange groves which skirt the 
Bay of Naples, the cicerone tells of u Meelor 
Beeron ; " in the hotel, the room "Meelor Beeron" 
occupied is noted, mentioned, and shown, with 
the candlestick he carried to his unquiet bedroom. 
At Sphactera, which they tell you is Medora's 
Isle, you are shown the grotto in which the 
pirate chief anchored his ship : — 

"How gloriously her gallant course she goes! 
Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 
She walks the waters like a thing of life, 
And seems to dare the elements to strife." 

He has made the iEgean his own, where 
burning Sappho loved and sung; Coron's bay, 
where floated many a galley light; and, passing 
the Dardanelles, the captain of the " Fleur de 
Luce " says nothing of Hero and Leander, but, 
" This is where Byron swam across, three miles, 
in an hour and ten minutes." By the blue rushing 
of the arrowy Rhone and where Lake Leman lies 



Byron. 137 

by Chillon's walls, the waters are forever asso- 
ciated with the most illustrious Englishman of 
the nineteenth century. 

At Marathon we do not recall the flying hosts 
of Persia ; but 

"The mountains look on Marathon, 
And Marathon looks on the sea. M 

The earliest and the latest singers have tuned 
their harps here ; but his name leads all, proudest 
of the shining host written in the water of the 
halcyon sea which softly beats on the shores of 
that Greece to which he gave his sword, his 
fortune, and his life. 

At Missolonghi the name of Byron is an undy- 
ing memory, and last xqvly his statue was there 
unveiled, with music of trumpet and bugle and 
national airs by martial bands. A funeral ser- 
vice was performed, and the elerg}^ and civic 
authorities, headed by trumpeters, walked in 
solemn, stately procession to the site of the 
statue. The prtfet said, in a voice loud enough 
for the crowd to hear : " Let the veil fall ! Let 
ns uncover the statue of the grand martyr of 
our holy revolution ! the grand benefactor of 
Greece ! " 

This almost atones for the absence of his 



138 The Storied Sea. 

monument in Westminster, and not till I visited 
the East did I realize how secure is his fame. 

He wrote, " Athens holds nry heart and soul." 
The wanderer, outlawed by public opinion from 
his native country, turned for adoption to the 
classic land whose sons in desperate revolution 
battled for a restoration of the glories of the 
ancient republic. That subject should not be 
touched with an every-day pen, nor the land 
described in common phrase. 

My reader of the outgoing generation may 
remember something of " Contarini Fleming," the 
most romantic, and therefore most charming to 
the young, of all Disraeli's romances. More 
years ago than I care to record, it fascinated me, 
and one passage from its brilliant pages has 
never faded from the chronicles of memoiy. I 
gladly efface my own weak effort at description 
for a paragraph which gives the very soul of the 
glorious land on the iEgean shore : — 

" A country of promontories and gulfs and islands 
clustering in an azure sea ; a country of wooded vales and 
purple mountains, wherein the cities are built on plains 
covered with olive woods and at the base of an Acropolis 
crcwned with a temple or a tower. And there are quarries 
of white marble, and vines, and much wild honey. And 
wherever you move is some fair and elegant memorial of 



Byron. 139 

the poetic past ; a lone pillar on the green and silent plain, 
once echoing with triumphant shouts of sacred games, the 
tomb of a hero or the fane of a god. Clear is the sky and 
fragrant is the air, and at all seasons the magical scenery 
of this land is colored with that mellow tint and invested 
with that pensive character which in other countries we 
conceive to be peculiar to autumn, and which beautifully 
associate with the recollections of the past." 

Byron called the subtle, quick-witted Greeks 
the Eastern Irish, — an idea echoed by English 
statesmen of to-day. Speaking of the desperate 
tangle known as the Eastern Question, knotted 
by Epirotes of Smyrna, they say thirty Irelands 
are in Asia Minor. 

He wrote: " The} r are plausible rascals. I 
came here expecting to find Plutarch's men. I find 
the morals of Xewgate are better." Of Mara- 
thon, the name which makes us all Grecians, he 
writes : " The Plain of Marathon was offered me 
for the sum of nine hundred pounds. Alas ! was 
the dust of Miltiades worth no more? It could 
scarcely have fetched less if sold by weight/' 
But no disappointment or even a worn-out frame 
or hopeless spirit could lead him to abandon the 
cause he held so dear, or could chill his affection 
for the birthplace of heroes. 

Where, he asks, is the human being that ever 
conferred a benefit on Greeks or Greece? " They 



140 The Storied Sea. 

are to be grateful to the Turks for their fetters, 
and to the Franks for their broken promises and 
lying counsels. The}' are to be grateful to the 
artist who engraves their ruins, and the anti- 
quary who carries them awaj- ; to the traveller 
whose janissary flogs them, and to the scribbler 
whose journal abuses them." 

The Greeks had looked to his arrival as they 
would to the advent of the Messiah. Misso- 
longhi was at the time a pestilential prison, — 
floods on the land side and sirocco from the sea. 
Of its marshes he says: "The dikes of Holland, 
when broken down, are the deserts of Arabia 
for diyness in comparison." He felt he should 
never leave it alive, and said to his faithful Tita, 
"Either the Turks, the Greeks, or the climate 
will prevent my going back to Italy." He had, 
as he gloomily expressed it, an old feel, and 
frequently alluded to a Scotch fortune-teller, who 
said to him, "Beware of j-our thirty-seventh 
year." 

Deep melancholy }^et touches us in thinking 
of that death-bed, among half-wild soldiers, who 
rested all hope of the future on this one man. 
The absence of womanly care or nursing, the 
wretchedness and desolation of his surroundings, 
are in bitter contrast with the ideal minstrel of 



Byron. 141 

the tens of thousands who had hung entranced 
on his numbers and who wept at his death, 
though they had never seen his face. 

In Smyrna it was my good fortune to become 
acquainted with a gentleman whose father was 
with Byron in his last days, and from him I 
learned nothing new ; but it seemed freshly 
brought to mind by hearing the reminiscences, 
rather than reading them. 

To his mother, the strange, unnatural mother, 
who never ceased to taunt him and rate him as 
a lame brat, and whose last illness was made 
fatal by a tit of rage brought on by reading her 
upholsterer's bill, he was indebted for a belief in 
lucky and unlucky days. She taught him, too, a 
firm faith in sorcery and necromancy and the 
ominous fascination of the evil eye, the mal oc- 
chio, for which charms and talismans are found 
in buried Pompeii. He was so superstitious as 
to refuse to take medicine till some old witch 
was first sent for, to exorcise the evil eye which 
prevented its action. His morbid gloom at times 
bordered on insanity, of which he lived in dread, 
thinking himself predisposed to it b}^ inheritance. 
His variable and capricious temper made the 
case difficult for the physicians. To the last 
his face wore its habitual sarcastic expression, 



142 The Storied Sea. 

and the customarj 1 - sneer was rarely absent from 
the exquisite lips. Yon remember Scott used to 
say, " Byron's face is a thing to dream of, an ala- 
baster vase lighted from within ; " nor did that 
beauty vanish even in the hours when he repeated 
" Ada, Greece," the last adieu to the land of his 
adoption, and the sole child of his house and 
heart, the child of love, though born in bitterness 
and nurtured in convulsion. 

Before embalming the bod}', when the prepara- 
tions were ready, the physicians paused before 
the Eternal Pilgrim, so young in years, so abso- 
lute by genius, who had laid down his gathered 
sheaves of fame in what appeared a useless 
sacrifice. 

Said my informant, involuntarily they stood in 
silent admiration of the surpassing beauty of his 
person. The restless, scintillating gray eyes 
were closed, and his face wore the calm of one 
whose last words were: "Now I shall go to 
sleep." About the small, compact head the hair 
curled naturally, already quite gray. His sick- 
ness was so short, the body was not wasted, the 
skin was white and delicate, and the perfect sym- 
metry of his hands made them like waxen models. 
The head was that of the Apollo ; but his left 
foot was deformed and turned inward, the left leg 



Byron. 143 

was smaller and shorter than the sound one. He 
said an accident had misshaped his leg ; but 
there can be no doubt that he was born club- 
footed. Proceeding with the autopsy, they found 
the lungs healthy ; but the appearance of the 
heart was singular. "Its parietes were as col- 
lapsed and of consistence as flabby as those of 
persons who have died of old age." He spent 
his summer while it was May, and was himself 
one of whom he sung, — 

" There is an order 
Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 
Without the violence of warlike death: 
Some perishing of pleasure, some of study, 
Some worn with toil, some of mere weariness, 
Some of disease, and some of insanity, 
And some of withered or of broken hearts; 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are numbered in the lists of Fate, 
Taking all shapes and bearing many names." 

" On the 22d of April, 1824," writes an eyewit- 
ness, " in the midst of his own brigade of the troops 
of the Government, on the shoulders of the officers 
of his corps, relieved occasionally by other Greeks, 
the honored remains were carried to the church 
where lie the bodies of Marcos Bozzaris and Gen- 
eral Norman. There we laid them down. The 



144 The Storied Sea, 

coffin was a rude, ill-constructed chest of wood ; 
a black mantle served for a pall ; and over it we 
placed a helmet and a sword, and a crown of 
laurel. No funeral pomp could have left the im- 
pression nor spoken the feelings of this simple 
ceremony. The wretchedness and desolation of 
the place itself; the wild, half-civilized warriors 
around us; their deep-felt, unaffected grief; the 
fond recollections ; the disappointed hopes ; the 
anxieties and sad presentiments which might be 
read on every countenance, — all contributed to 
form a scene more moving, more truly affecting, 
than perhaps was ever before witnessed round 
the grave of a great man." An English chief- 
tain, with Suliotes for his guards and all Greece 
for his mourners. 




XII. 



CLASSIC FUNERALS. 




O you remember the little song which 
Byron sung to a young Greek girl, 



thereby giving her a century of fame? 
A slight thing, yet to this day much affected by 
college boys ; possibly because of the foreign line 
which allows opportunity for airing a few words 
from the Lexicon. It begins : — ■ 

"Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oh ! give me back my heart," 

and was addressed to the lovely daughter of the 
Greek lady, widow of an English vice-consul, 
at whose house the poet lodged. In a letter to 
Drury ( 1810) he writes : " I almost forgot to tell 
you I am dying for love of three Greek girls at 
Athens, sisters. I lived in the same house. 
Theresa, Mariana, Katinka, are the names of 
10 



146 The Storied Sea. 

these divinities," all of them under fifteen. The 
story (probably a lie) runs, that, in making love 
to one of these goddesses, he had recourse to an 
act of courtship common in the East, namely, 
giving himself a wound across the breast with 
his dagger. The young Athenian, b} r his own 
account, looked on very coolly during the opera- 
tion, regarding it a fit tribute to her beaut}', but 
in no way moved to gratitude or acceptance of 
his love. 

The Maid of Athens was eldest of three sisters, 
on whom the beauty of the beautiful race had 
descended. For many years the name of Theresa 
Maori was familiar to travellers. Her quiet, 
modest home was sought out, and details of her 
daily life, her classic face and gentle manner, 
were the themes of the tourist. The rosy wreath 
which Bjtoii placed on the girlish head seems to 
be the main incident of an uneventful life. She 
married Captain Black, and, mother of many 
children, to the last years of a long life was one 
of the u sights " of the violet-crowned city. 

"We were invited to Mrs. Black's funeral," 
writes a friend living in modern Athens, " and 
joined the procession not far from the English 
cemetery, where her grave was made. That is a 
pleasant spot, on the banks of the shrunken 



Classic Funerals. 14/ 

Ilissus, opposite the Stadium, near c green Cal- 
lirrhoe,' — ancient mother of monsters, now a 
wasted fountain. The river of poetry, consecrated 
by religion, legend, and tradition, could never have 
been a considerable stream, 011I3- what we would 
call a spring branch, and in the Mississippi 
valley would not count at all. 

" Often dry in summer, it runs through the 
east side of the city and is lost in the marshes of 
the Athenian plain ; but size does not make the 
interest of any river, else would the Amazon 
be worth many a Tiber. Along the banks of this 
irregular and fitful stream anciently were sacred 
groves and flowery altars, dedicated to the Muses. 
Its pure and limpid waters mirrored all fair and 
graceful shapes,— a lovely throng, now vanished 
forever, with their votive tablets and memorials. 

"On a neighboring hill, Plato, the divine 
teacher, walked and talked with his pupils, after 
his return from Egypt and Sicily. Hallowed is 
the ground by holy and venerable shades, gracious 
presences invisible. Here, we fancy, the young 
disciples might have swum in the milk-warm river 
of summer, and hard by are the magnificent 
remains of the unfinished Temple of Jupiter, like 
all in Greece, lovelier in death than aught else in 
life. 



148 The Storied Sea. 

" The sun sets behind mountains which conceal 
the Morea from view, and in funereal thought 
ethereal spirits from out the dim, shadowy past 
attended us ; ghosts of the flying Persian hosts. 
Four hundred and eighty years before Christ, was 
fought the battle of Salamis ; and on a throne of 
precious metals Xerxes sat in royal slate, and 
from the high mountain yonder surveyed the con- 
test. The brass beaks of the light ships of the 
agile Greek broke against the clumsy Persian 
galleys, and the monarch, afar and impotent, 
watched the slaughter of his 4 Immortals' and the 
wrecked fleet scattered to the winds, one more 
triumphal wreath for Themistocles that day. 

"While the train moved forward we passed 
peasants dancing and singing in the smooth 
Ionian tongue, — 

1 As the honey mingles wilh milk, 
Thus the black of our eyes mingles with the blue of thine, ' — 

love words joined to a melody such as shepherds 
might have heard in the golden ages, when the 
world was j'oung and the vales of Thessaly were 
haunted with naiad and satyr ; such as Pan might 
have piped in mythic times to the nymphs of 
Arcady, banishing grief to a far dwelling on the 
other side of the mountains. In the shadow 



Classic Funerals. 149 

of the olives idlers lounged, and on little tables 
rattled the dice-boxes, playing games old as the 
Pyramids. Visit the Elder World, if you would 
learn the truth that there is nothing new under 
the sun. 

"A few light clouds floated like airy scarfs 
above a range of low hills which terminates in 
the flowery Mount Hymettus. There the Attic 
bees yet hum in the fragrant thyme, and, through 
all changes, Athens is famous for olives and Hy- 
mettus for honey. A group of peasants on the 
hillside made a din by striking on brazen vessels, 
to attract a swarm which had just left the hive. 
In this way, when a child, I used to 'assist' 
with a stick, and batter a tin pan by way of add- 
ing to the tumult which an early superstition 
taught was the speediest w r ay to make bees settle. 
That practice has fallen into contempt with the 
owners of patent hives, but is still continued here, 
according to an immemorial fashion. The wild 
honey is very rich, and is, indeed, sweet as 
pleasant words. 

" Not far away from the cemetery was once the 
ancient Odeum, the theatre built by Pericles for 
musical competitions ; and devout Greeks used 
to say the Muses haunted the burial-place of 
victors in these sweet contests, and made the air 



150 The Storied Sea. 

tuneful with lamentations over their tombs. The 
roof of this temple was made of masts and yards 
of ships of the Persian fleet defeated at Salamis, 
and was modelled after the tent of Xerxes. Thus 
did this glorious people consecrate all that was 
dear and precious, and the trophies of battle 
were made to do gentle service in preservation 
of the divinest of the arts of peace. 

" Hard by is the Ceramicus, sacred to ashes of 
heroes of war, who had separate and most hon- 
ored sepulture apart from vulgar dust. Ven- 
erated were their resting-places. You remember 
the lofty, defiant boast : ' We know no blessing 
but liberty, and confess no master but the gods. 
If thou wouldst prove our valor, come and insult 
the tombs of our ancestors.' 

"Here, too, near the relics of the Acadenry, 
Diogenes camped in his tub, which he never used 
as a wash-tub. The dirty old vagabond has 
his fame as a philosopher, while tens of thousands 
have been forgotten the latchet of whose shoes 
he is not worthy to unloose. He bore the slings 
and arrows of outrageous fortune with mortify- 
ing tranquillity, and his haughty scorn of riches 
was equalled only by his contempt of work ; a re- 
former of mankind, whose ideal man, a drone and 
a thief, was most nearly reached in Lacedaemon. 



Classic Funerals. 151 

4 1 have found men no where,' said this lazy brute ; 
4 but I have seen children at Sparta.' 

44 A pale blue column of smoke against the 
fair horizon marks the distant volcano where 
Vulcan used to set up his furnaces and make the 
Cyclops forge the thunderbolts of Jupiter. But 
how can I give half the associations in a single 
landscape where every step is on an empire's 
dust? Come into the tinted mist, hear the night- 
ingale sing, and feel the soft Circean spell of the 
sea, sky, and soil of Greece. Their loveliness is 
beyond my praise. 

14 Let me entreat you, in the words of Lysip- 
pus : ; Whoever does not desire to see Athens is 
stupid ; whoever sees it without being delighted, 
is still more stupid ; but the height of stupidity is 
to see it, to admire it, and to leave it.' 

44 Softly tempered, the tender sunlight rested 
on the mortal remains of the Maid of Athens. 
The open coffin was rested beside the grave, and 
the placid face, exposed, must once have been 
remarkably fine. The low forehead and delicate, 
straight nose, inclining to aquiline, were still 
there, and the slender hands, which were folded 
at rest. The expression of the mouth was peace- 
ful, but she was worn and old. The funeral 
was very simple in all its appointments, and few 



152 The Storied Sea. 

followed to the grave the poor Widow Black, 
whose c soft cheek's blooming tinge ' and ' wild 
eyes ]ike the roe' have been sung wherever the 
English language is spoken. 

" She was a member of the Greek Church, and 
Greek priests performed the funeral service. 
The exquisite fineness of this atmosphere carries 
the penetrating voices to great distances and 
the procession is most solemn and picturesque. 
The Greek priests look as though, like the Levite, 
without blemish or fault and selected for beauty. 
The deep-set, glowing black eyes are not shaded by 
their stove-pipe hat with a square tile at the top ; 
a most curious head-gear, to which a black gauze 
veil is often attached. Long, floating robes reach 
to the feet, nearly always black, though some- 
times purple. Long hair, straggling on the shoul- 
ders or knotted behind, gives strange blendings 
to a costume which makes the wearer appear 
neither man nor woman ; and at first glance it is 
a question to one unfamiliar with the country." 

The seeming immortality of the ancient Grecian 
customs is shown in the burial ceremonials ; and 
their rich and musical language is well adapted 
to the wailing chants of priests, called by them 
Meyriology, or rrymns of the dead. The absorb- 
ing interest attached of old to a funeral, and 



('lassie Funerals. 153 

indeed every event connected with death, still 
adheres to the Hellenic mind. Modern religions 
have influenced the national language and tradi- 
tions ; but there is enough left of the classic rites, 
old as superstition, to remind one of the " Iliad" 
and the " Odyssey." Men let their beards grow, 
and women cut off their hair at the death of their 
husbands and bury the long tresses with them, 
pledges of grief and affection. There are man}' 
portions of Asia Minor where this is the common 
practice. 

The wedding wreath of the bride is carefully 
laid away for the funeral, and in Epirus, so strict 
is custom, a widow would be despised if she con- 
tracted a second marriage. Instead of the an- 
cient libations of oil and wine to the heathen 
deities, platters of sweets are left on the grave, 
which are appropriated by the priests. 

When the last hour approaches and the last 
enemy is to be met, a priest is sent for and sacra- 
ment is administered. The nearest relative must 
come and catch the latest breath — the parting 
soul — of the beloved, give the farewell kiss, and 
press the dull eyelids down over the lustreless 
eyes. Still, as in the antique ages, do they array 
the corpse in holiday robes, fresh bathed, and 
anointed with oil and wine. It lies at full length, 



154 The Storied Sea. 

with crossed hands and upright feet, sprinkled 
with flowers, and the solemn cypress branch is 
hung above the door. Formerly the coffin was 
made of this wood. They sing, " Flowers fade, 
leaves wither ; but the constant cypress is green 
forever." Friends watch the body through the 
night, and tapers at the head and feet are lighted. 
Dirges are chanted, setting forth the life and 
virtues of the deceased in tender valediction, and 
the cause of his death. These are in minor key, 
with long, shrill notes, that pierce the ear like 
the shrieks of women. The funeral usually takes 
place the next day after death, as in the classic 
years, when opinion held that not till the burial- 
rites are ended are the shades ferried over the 
fatal Styx to the Elysian Fields beyond. The 
soul, having left its habitation, is stopped on the 
banks of the black-flowing river, and wanders 
up and down in darkness, tormented with the 
desire of reaching the place of its destination. 
"And thus it appeared to the mourners, who 
should not rest till they have withdrawn the 
mortal relics from the eye of daj- and exposure 
to the weather." 

Friends come by invitation to the house of 
mourning. The coffin is wreathed with flowers, 
if the means of the survivors afford it, or dressed 



Classic Funerals. 155 

with green leaves by the poorer classes. The 
priests assemble, and a cake, soaked in wine, is 
eaten by the company, who say, "O God, who 
gave, rest his soul." Prayers are offered, and 
the procession marches to the church. Crosses 
are carried by the clergy, and lighted tapers by 
the others. The coffin, opened and adorned, is 
borne on the shoulders of men, and black 
streamers, pending from it, are held by the eldest 
or most honored members of the cortege. When 
the funeral mass is ended, the priests tell the 
relatives to take the last farewell and leave the 
last kiss ; then there are wailing and ciying. On 
reaching the grave, the final prayers are offered, 
the coffin-lid nailed down, and the body is low- 
ered in a shallow grave. The leading, or perhaps 
I might say the ranking, priest throws in a spadeful 
of gravel in the form of a cross, and passes the 
spade to the nearest of kin, who do the same in 
turns, repeating, "God rest his soul." The 
bier is then covered with the pall of black and 
the grave filled. Returning to the house of 
mourning, the invited guests wash their hands 
and partake of a lunch, at which fish, eggs, and 
vegetables alone are eaten, — the weak modern 
substitute for those tremendous feasts of old, 
where heroes banqueted for days on the funeral- 



156 The Storied Sea. 

baked meats and drank the red wine, which 
warmed their heart's core. But those were the 
heroic ages, and offerings at the shrine of the 
mighty were in keeping with the prowess of 
the deceased. 

At evening of the third, ninth, twentieth days 
masses are said for the soul of the departed, and 
on the fortieth day the friends assemble at the 
house of mourning, and, after a simple meal, pro- 
ceed to the newly made grave and set up a tomb- 
stone. On the fortieth da}- a list of the ancestors 
of the dead is read and prayer is offered for their 
souls. It would seem the Greek faith trusts the 
power of prayer generations after the spirit has 
passed beyond the veil, and, as some Christians 
believe, been admitted to Paradise. 

At intervals of three }~ears these rites are 
observed in loving anniversaries. At the end of 
that time a most singular and revolting custom 
obtains in some provinces of the East. The 
tomb is opened, and if the remains are well de- 
composed the bones are gathered into a cloth, and 
carried in a basket covered with a rich garment 
to the church. Flowers are laid on the top and 
the whole deposit is left nine days, while every 
evening relatives go to say prayers, and the body 
is then reinterred. 



Classic Funerals. 157 

This hideous practice, enough to corrupt the 
air and breed pestilence, has happily fallen into 
disuse. It probably originated in some remote 
period, when a hurried burial obliged a reinter- 
ment, and is continued in the spirit of the 
Boeotians. When questioned why they offered 
eels to the gods: wi We observe the customs of 
our forefathers, without thinking ourselves obliged 
to give a reason for them." Conform to the re- 
ceived religion of your country, was the command 
of the Delphic oracle, and the well-disciplined 
Greeks accept the usages of the past without 
question, in reverence and submission which are 
a puzzle and a mystery to the Yankee intellect. 
It is excusable in a people whose history is in the 
past and the future, but not in the restless 
race working in the busy present to make 
historv. 



XIII. 



THE AMERICAN GIRL : AN INTERLUDE. 



PART I. 




N a day of ennui she came aboard, and 
we knew her before she reached the 
steamer. No other girl wears a w T hite 
necktie so high over the full, soft throat ; no 
other travels in navj'-blue silk, with solitaire 
ear-rings, not vulgarly large, but of pure water 
and fine setting ; no other girl is so freshly 
gloved and chausse (the word " booted" is too 
harsh for those delicate feet) ; and none other 
could or would so lightly mount the gangway, 
walk straight to us, and sa} T , "We are country- 
women, are we not? Then let us be friends at 
once." How did she identify the two ladies in 
black, I should like to know? 

A miniature woman, impossible anywhere on 
earth except in our land of fierce, cold, and vivid 
sunshine ; a lithe, pliant figure, of perfect shape, 



The American Girl. 159 

from the Arab arch of her foot to the small, 
compact head, well set on the sloping shoulders. 

After living some months among demure, sup- 
pressed European girls, much alike as rows of 
pins, who would regard as something dangerous 
and revolutionary the young republican from 
14 the land of the free and the home of the brave," 
this fairy came without question into our home- 
sick hearts. 

It must be confessed she was rather conspic- 
uous. The fineness of her toilet was noticeable, 
and on her arm was a Roman shawl, or rather 
scarf, — ■ rainbow stripes on black ground, — which 
harmonized well with the fresh young face ; but 
elegant silken fabrics are not often used as travel- 
ling wraps on the Mediterranean. She smiled as 
she touched my hand, bringing out two sets of 
dimples, one in each cheek, where the old war of 
the roses went on, and one below the long lower 
eyelashes. It flashed over her face like sunlight, 
and kindled the luminous eyes, which were neither 
gray, blue, nor brown, — a mixture of these colors 
and better than either. We all at one moment 
unanimously fell in love with her, except the 
Antiquary. He had taken fright at her first 
appearance. " A pert boarding-school girl !" he 
said, with a sound between a snort and a groan, 



160 The Storied Sea. 

and fortified himself between the wheelhouse 
and the guard, under a large umbrella ; as though 
she knew or cared, if she had known, what he 
thought. 

She was attended b} 7 a tall, gawky countryman, 
who persisted in clutching with firm grip his own 
valise, in spite of persistent endeavors of the 
gargon. He was well dressed, but not able to 
carry off his tailoring, and was plainly oppressed 
by its superior make and finish, to quote the 
aesthetic and autocratic Devlin. The slouch hat, 
which identifies the native American from afar, 
was borne in a knotty hand, the hand of a plough- 
man, exposing a thick shock of hair, the color of 
a Maltese cat. The breeze played softly with his 
shaggy locks, and the rugged face was anxious, — 
or was it only bored? 

He seated himself on a stool near us, absorbed 
in gazing at the small lady he attended, though, 
in obedience to a signal from her, he shook hands 
in sober, decorous, pump-handle fashion, smiled 
a bony smile, and replaced the slouch between 
his knees. It is an established historic fact that 
our countrymen are a hat- wearing race, attached 
to their head-covering beyond all peoples, except, 
perhaps, the fez-wearers, who remove their na- 
tional cap only in the seclusion of the harem ; 



The American Girl. 161 

whereas ours occasionally uncover at meals. 
What was this giddy Western traveller thinking 
of, when he thus bared the black, bushy locks, 
cooled with a gray frost, to the light of common 
day? 

" Now," said the new-comer, easily and pleas- 
antly, as though we had known her for years, 
" let us tell our stories, like travellers in the stoiy- 
books. The oldest first." This chapter would 
be entirely too long for even the gentlest of 
readers, did we record the facts we gave to our 
young friend ; and then she took the word. " My 
name is Begina Atwood. Nina is my pet name. 
Papa and Mamma (emphasis on the first syllable) 
"died when I was little — 3-011 are laughing at 
me — when I was only so high." She held her 
hand about two feet from the floor. "This is my 
adopted father, m3 T uncle. I have lived at school 
in a college town ; never was away from home 
till the Centennial. Last year I had t3~phoid 
fever, and 1113* hair came out. Look ! " She took 
off her hat, with streaming plume, and threw it 
on the bench, baring a head of short, close curls. 
tw I don't like these curls ; the3 T make me look so 
babyish. I lost my memoiy, and sometimes it 
fails me yet. We are travelling for 1113' health. 
Are to summer in the Alps and winter in Eg3'pt." 



162 The Storied Sea. 

"Beware of the ic}' winds of the Apennines 
and of Rome." 

"Yes, they are excavating, turning up the 
ancient plagues in Rome. The old gentleman 
yonder, camped under the umbrella, I don't know 
why, for it neither rains nor shines — " 

" Don't speak so loud." 

" Well, then, the blooming youth in the green 
goggles, does he belong to your party? He looks 
— what was the word we used to use in composi- 
tion ?" She put a finger-tip to her forehead. 
" Didactic ! That 's it. Didactic ! Good to learn 
from, but not happy to live with." 

" What a pretty hat ! " said Thalia, turning the 
little turban on her fist, as she struck the con- 
genial topic which makes the world of womankind 
akin. "Paris?" 

"No, indeed. I made it myself, from scraps 
left of nrv dress. If ever I have to make a living, 
I shall not teach in the horrid schools, but shall 
open a milliner's shop. That feather used to be 
white. I had it dyed blue." 

" Set me clown as your first customer, Made- 
moiselle Atwood." 

" Yes, thank you." And, looking at my bonnet 
with a dash of mischief, which dimpled her vari- 
able face all over, she added, " Suppose we begin 
now." 



The American Girl. 163 

"Really, you don't mean to insinuate this 
Loudon purchase is not the proper thing." 

"But I do, though. That Alsatian bow is as 
old as the hills." And, before I knew what the 
little witch was about, she had whisked off the 
offending bonnet, had thrown a hood on my head, 
was blowing cinders from the bows, turning rib- 
bons this way and that in dainty fingers, where I 
marked a single golden circlet. " There, now, 
that is something less — less archaic, as your 
friend yonder might say. Uncle, the handbag, 
please." The relative thus accosted had the eyes 
of a bloodhound, and when bidden to this slight 
service his air was that of a faithful dog when 
allowed to cany its master's pocket-handkerchief. 
She drew from the satchel a copy of " Lucille, " 
an old volume of Shakespeare, and a hand-glass. 
" Now, look," she said, " at im' improvements." 

" I do not care to look in the glass." 

u But you must," she insisted, with a pretty, 
wilful absurdity, kneeling before me and holding 
up the mirror. Cw See ! If poor Mamma had lived 
she might have been like you." Her varying face 
changed painfully. 

"You need her, poor child; never more than 
now." 

" So every one tells me; and I know it, for 



164 The Storied Sea. 

there is always something wanting, — wanting. 
But," she continued, brightening up again, "I 
have Uncle, 3-011 see. Dear Uncle, he has been 
my playmate alwaj's. Everybody said we should 
go w T ith the Cook's Tourists, for company, — the 
Cookies we call them ; but he said no. We get 
on better alone, and I do not care how we go, so 
we do go. We meet such nice people at every 
turn. Can't get aw r ay from them if we try." 

There was an Oxford student aboard, with 
whom we had been friendly, — a callow youth, 
in pinfeatherj- mustache, — one of those brisk, 
dapper little men, reminders of Bantam chickens, 
to whom the third and fourth vowels make the 
" Niagara chord " that goes sounding through their 
lives eternally. He had the Dundreary skip, lisp, 
the Dundreary eyeglass, (alas ! poor Yorick !) and 
through the pane in his eye, as our wit named it, 
Ke surve^yed the quicksilvery creature as he might 
a dodo, or a cassowar3% or a specimen kangaroo 
from his own Australia. 

He came near, and I formally presented him to 
the lovely, chattering maiden, and he plunged 
with languid movement into that subject on 
which, sa3 T s B3T011, all are fluent and none agree- 
able, — self. She listened in an attitude of easy 
indifference, and when the platitudes ended, 



The American Girl. 1G5 

appeared unconscious of the existence of the 
autobiographer. 

Thalia said, after a minute's silence: "You 
live in a college town. No need to ask if you 
have troops of admirers." 

"Tribes," said Nina, unconcernedly, as one 
might say, "That is a grasshopper region." 
" Would you like to see the photographs of the 
Senior Class of last year? And the Faculty, 
too?" 

"Never mind the Faculty. Bring the young 
gentlemen." 

" Good taste on your part," she said quickly. 
" Those bald old men are so didactic." She put 
on the blue hat, and, followed by Uncle (I never 
learned his name), who watched like a faithful 
hound, she disappeared below, and quickly re- 
turned with a velvet case, full of card pictures. 
Then she cleared the bench, drew them out, and 
ranged them. " There the}' are, now, like four 
and twenty blackbirds all in a row." 

" Tell their stories to us, won't you? " 

" Oh ! I don't know family histories. Nothing 
about grandfathers, Darwinian or otherwise, and 
all that," she continued, w r ith a frolicsome glee, 
pleasant as the playful gambols of a kitten. " But 
what I know I tell. Now the panorama moves. 



166 The Storied Sea. 

Here is the aesthete, who thinks himself too sweet 
for anything. His room was tinted sea-green, 
with a claclo and a bewitching frieze of lilies and 
swallows. The lilies were swallowing the birds 
or the birds swallowing the lilies, I never could 
tell which. Then he had a picture of Raphael, 
leaning his head on his hand (so !), framed in old-, 
gold velvet, and under it a lamp, with curious fig- 
ures, like the one Booth carries in ' Richelieu ; ' 
and he used to murmur about keeping the flame 
alive, and votive offerings of genius at the shrine 
of genius and the like." 

84 You did not admire him, then ?" 

44 No. He was too, too utterly intense, — alwa}'s 
talking about melodies in blues and melodies in 
gra3's. His wife would die trying to keep at con- 
cert pitch with his melodies. Hollow ! hollow ! " 
She turned the weak, expressionless face to the 
wall. 

"Now, here is number two, the ambitious 
3'outh, a candidate for fame, about to rush from 
the college campus into the arena of action." 

I looked at the boyish picture. 

44 A plain face ; but strong." 

"Precisely. A good, ugly, hard worker, who 
took the first prizes, — in fact, all the prizes." 

44 You admired him?" 



The American Girl. 167 

" Xot at all," said the little maid, wilfully, yet 
ia a fresh-hearted, unspoiled way. 

" Very young, was n't he, to graduate?" 

64 No, not very, lie will vote at the November 

elections." 

The Antiquary, who had the impression he was 
missing something good, had folded his tent and 
silently stolen up to look at the pieturer. We 
smiled at the different idea of j'outh she had from 
her listeners, feeling the sad longing of winter 
for spring. With a charming animation, she 
went on. 

"Here is the athlete, in base-ball costume. 
You see ! All muscle. In choosing for the Ger- 
man, we could always pick out those stumpy fin- 
gers above the screen. And here are the Cherubs, 
posed like the Sistine Madonna, rolling up their 
eyes at nothing. We called them the twins ; but 
they were no kin. And this is the artist. He 
painted the regulation stork on the long panel ; a 
view of Lake George and the Prison of Chillon ; 
a portrait of himself, with flowing hair and a long 
gown." 

"Yours, too, perhaps." 

She nodded. 

"A frightful thing! Looked like a dissolving 
view, as bad in its way as his marine efforts on 



168 The Storied Sea. 

clam shells. His studio was a chamber of hor- 
rors ; and then he was forever talking of inspira- 
tions, and that Art was his bride and he would 
woo no other, for it sufficeth him. A do-less fel- 
low, who will probably end as a sign-painter and 
call it Pompeian fresco." 

u Here is number nine. He looks pale, even in 
a photograph. Like Hamlet, 'Man delights not 
me ; no, nor woman neither.' He died of con- 
sumption ; overwork they said. The Shake- 
speare Club went in a bod}' to the funeral. He 
was the oldest one of the class. They called him 
Nestor, as though he dated back to the da} T s of 
Methuselah." 

" How old was he, anyhow?" 

" Twent\'-eight. It is pretty old, you under- 
stand." Again her audience smiled to each 
other. 

u Here is the handsomest student in Camden 
College." She passed the picture round to the 
listening group. 

" A very fine face," said one. 

" Very. It was such a shame he should be so 
poor. Was sexton, and the boys used to call 
him professor of dust and ashes. Expects to go 
as missionary to Honolulu. The strangest part 
of it is, he was the poet of the class. His speech 



The American Girl. 169 

Commencement was in Spenserian verse. A splen- 
did thing. He is very different from the artist 
there, in love with himself, who is so dream} T and 
willowy. His wife will have to support him. A 
masculine ivy clinging to some half-way oak, I 
suppose." ■ 

"You liked the poet, eh?" 

"I admired him," she said; " but he w r as too 
lofty for me. See that ! " She handed a lank 
young man in turn-down collar and flying cravat. 
" He gives the whole of his mind to his necktie. 
John Crain by name. Just look at that silly ring 
on his thumb. He is a howling swell — " 

" Slang from a college town?" 

11 Yes. I must use a little now and then. 
He — " Just there a sudden gust caught the 
cards. We scrambled for them ; but one went 
overboard. 

" Look for a storm to-night," said Antiquary; 
"there is a howling swell in the sea." And, after 
the manner of men who rarely indulge in a witti- 
cism, he dropped his prim manner and beamed 
with delight at his own smartness. 

" Capital ! " said the maiden, graciously, with a 
sunny glance that would have melted a harder 
heart . 

The punster lifted an embroidered India cap, 



170 The Storied Sea, 

that made him look like a scarecrow, and bowed 
his thanks. She held the cards tightly in her 
hand ; and as the photograph of the Senior with a 
ring on his thumb floated off on the turquoise blue 
water, she waved them at it. 

u Good-by. Good-b}', John Crain. Give my 
love to the nymphs and the naiads, down in the 
corals and amber ; most of all to Undine, and tell 
her I love her, I love her." 

4i But I must get on with my galleiy of illus- 
trious men," she continued gayly. " Here is the 
heavy German scholar. Blonde, studies late at 
night, and never goes to church." She handed 
the portrait to the Oxford bantam, whose feathers 
rose while he surveyed it as from a prodigious 
height (say the Ghizeh Pyramid) through the 
Cyclopean glass. 

"Suppose aw — aw foreigner like this should 
address aw — aw lady like — like aw — " 

" Like that?" said Nina, archly, holding up her 
own childish face on a card. 

" Yes, exactly. Like that. What aw — what 
would the aw — the lady say?" 

His manner was not rude, but the words meant 
more than met the ear. She looked steadily at 
him with those frank, fearless dark eyes. " I 
suppose she would probably smile, and say, 



The American Girl. 1/1 

4 Thank you ; but I cannot think of marrying a 
man disqualified by law from holding the office of 
President of the United States.' " 

It was as neat a stab as any Italian woman ever 
gave with the silver stiletto which serves her for 
a hair-pin. The Oxford man looked at her in a 
dazed, bewildered way. She was cool as snow 
and moonlight. Then he slipped out of sight. 

6 'My little countrywoman, you take your fate 
dans vos deux mains, as our French cousins sa}\" 

"Oh! I didn't mean anything," she said inno- 
cently, and chatted on indifferent, as though Ox- 
ford had swung off on one of the rings of Saturn. 
If it was acting, it was perfect. I did not know. 
I never knew if it was more or less than that ; 
but she never brushed away a gnat with less 
concern. 

"You have had enough for to-day," she said, 
with sudden variation of expression, which gave 
the final charm to her evanescent beanty. " Run 
over the rest, and I will put them up." 

I glanced at the remaining cards and counted 
them. 

" Here they are. Twenty-one, twenty-two ; }^ou 
said there were twenty-four. Where is twenty- 
four?" 

"Yes, one went overboard." She hesitated at 



172 The Storied Sea, 

a temptation to tell a fib, and affected to search 
among the shawls for the missing Senior. Invol- 
untarily she put her hand to her bosom. A strong 
bound of the heart it was which sent the upspring- 
ing flash of scarlet flame into her cheek. Ah ! 
little one, the secret was out. I, too, have dwelt 
in Arcadia, and know what was at the end of the 
Venetian chain clasped round the white neck, with 
vows and promises and never-ending kisses. In 
that soft resting-place, " a thing to dream of, not 
to tell," over the heart which beat so fast, was 
hidden the portrait of the missing Senior. The 
burning blush passed, leaving a hot, red spot in 
her cheek, and a fluttered nervousness took pos- 
session of her. The white hand trembled like a 
tendril in the breeze, as she stooped, pretending 
to button her shoe ; but she could not hide the 
flush which reached to the kinky curls at the back 
of her neck. 

" Now I must look after Uncle's bangs," she 
said in a merry voice, and, turning where her 
guardian sat, she began to smooth his gray locks 
with love-pats, now and then hitting him a little 
tap under the chin with the back of the brush to 
make him hold his head up. A thousand careless 
graces waited on her steps ; not the rich gift of 
beauty only, but witching ways not to be described, 



The American Girl. 173 

— a force resistless as the airy kiss of the first 
fragrant breeze of spring. You open your win- 
clow and your heart ; 3*011 turn your face to it, and 
would kiss it back again, if you could. 

As for Uncle, at first I took him for a well- 
meaning idiot ; but, finding a gleam of intelli- 
gence in his peculiar face, gave him the benefit of 
a doubt, and made him a patient study. After 
all, there is nothing so interesting as humanity, 
and I discovered a case not named in the lists of 
medical works ; one where the heart had absorbed 
the brain and there was thought of only one ob- 
ject. Easy to see there were but two places in 
the world for him, — where she w T as and where she 
was not. To be near was all the dumb worshipper 
asked or wished ; and with his idol was supreme 
content. It radiated from the strange eyes, so 
fierce at times, and again, when bent on her, so 
fond. I have seen that rapt, ecstatic look in the 
shining morning face of 3'oung lovers, in the 
mother when she feels for the first time her first- 
born's breath ; but only in this instance have 
I known it on the face of a person of mature 
years. 

lie closed his e}*es, and she told him he looked 
too sweet for anything ; whereat the doting Uncle 
smiled such an inane smile I do believe he believed 



174 The Storied Sea. 

every word she said. The hair-dressing ended, 
she seated herself in his lap, in defiance of the 
prejudices of civilization, — our refined and pol- 
ished civilization, which allows our daughters, 
those fresh and virgin blossoms, to go whirling 
and whirling in the coarse clasp of a blase man of 
the world, to the swell of voluptuous music, the 
dreamy waltzes of Strauss, panting arm in arm 
to the last stretch of nerve and muscle, not 
infrequently coming down in a heap on slippery 
floors, and dropping, at last, exhausted on a 
sofa. 



XIV. 



THE AMERICAN GIRL : AN INTERLUDE. 
PART II. 




FTER the Senior Exhibition the wind 
freshened, and I staggered down below 
to lie with shut eves and set teeth and 
wrestle with the eneni}^. Thinking of the blessed 
land was interrupted by the careful opening of 
the door, and into the darkened room came Nina 
Atwood, with a small bowl in her hand. She was 
lithe as a panther, and her tread was soundless as 
snow on snow. 

11 Lift your head/' she said, with the air of a 
dictator. 

" I have no wish to lift my head." 

" But you must. Here is beef tea. I told the 
stewardess, in choice Ollendorff, how to have it 
made after our own cooking-club receipt, with 
just one ring of onion in, to give a home flavor. 
Come, come." 



176 The Storied Sea. 

Philosophers saj^, where there is strength to com- 
mand there is always obedience. This uncrowned 
queen, well named Regina, — I could no more re- 
sist her than you could. I took the bowl, gulped 
down the dose, failing, however, to detect the 
home flavor. " Your health and mine, my Hebe. 
It was most kind, and I thank xox\ heartily." 

"Not at all. Now, mind, no more ice, but 
beef tea, boiling hot, — that's what you want. 
Don't speak another word." And she stole out. 
A minute later, she was arguing with Uncle 
against locking her in her stateroom and keeping 
the key. " Suppose," she pleaded, " there should 
be fire, and I locked in. Dreadful ! " 

" I should be by you, honey, long afore you 
smelt smoke," said Uncle. 

She could twist him round her little finger in 
sovereign sway till it came to guarding her. 
There the old man was unbending as the ancient 
emperor who sealed his edicts with the hilt of his 
sword. 

The most amazing thing about seasickness is 
that the instant it leaves you are absolutely well 
and the misery forgotten. After the life-giving 
draught of beef-tea, with a ring of onion in it, the 
patient fell asleep, and, waking in the dusk, 
found the vessel steady. 



The American Girl. 177 

" That child on deck ! What is she doing now, 
Thalia ?" 

44 She is sitting in the old arm-chair called 
Uncle, still as a mouse, twirling the ring on her 
left hand." 

44 Thinking of the twentj'-fourth Senior." 

44 No doubt. She is still as still can be. An 
angel not much disguised." 

44 And the night?'' 

44 A Mohammedan night. The scent of Para- 
dise." 

We went on deck. In the solemn beauty of 
the afterglow the sea lay in halcyon repose ; only 
a vague unrest, soft as the stir of silken wings, 
ruffled the surface of the water. The lull of the 
tranquil evening shed a calming influence on the 
passengers of the 44 Fleur de Luce." The gen- 
tlemen smoked, the Roman priest fumbled his 
beads, the chattering Frenchmen were still. 
Among the august and glorious stars Orion moved 
in shining armor, and the Pleiades watched se- 
renely, as they used to watch the wandering Ulys- 
ses. We could almost hear the sirens singing on 
their coral isles, where they lie among beds of scar- 
let poppies and golden asphodel. In the dimness 
faiiy shapes were floating, and beckoning hands 
stretched out to us in the shadow}' distances. 
12 



178 The Storied Sea. 

" Can you give us a song, my little girl?" I 
asked. 

" With pleasure. I can sing best standing," 
she said, rising from the old arm-chair. " There 
are but two subjects for song, — love and death ; 
which shall it be ? " 

" Love, by all means." 

" You shall have one of love and death both." 

Then, without apology or hesitation, she began 
" The Maid of Dundee" in a voice of slender 
sweetness. It was clear as a bobolink's, and 
showed careful training. You know that hack- 
neyed ballad. It had a fresh charm in the bird- 
like notes, floating in the placid air of the Storied 
Sea. When the lines 

11 ; God,' she cried, * let me go too, 
And be with my Jamie, so good and true,' " 

died into silence, I watched a Swiss gentleman in 
the dry mediaeval epoch wipe his eyes. In that 
tender id} T l of a simple life did he hear far away 
flutings under summer windows? Did thoughts 
long buried rise out of their graves, like gentle 
ghosts, haunting the gates of an Eden forever 
lost, there where Junes and roses bloom, and the 
nightingale is always singing in the green still- 
ness of a shady garden ? 



The American Girl. 1/9 

My reader who possesses the vision and faculty 
divine may read the hearts of men and women, 
and look below the surface currents, to depths 
where the treasures lie ; but I cannot tell, who am 
neither prophet nor seer. 

Walter Scott said that there is romance enough 
in every life for a three-volumed novel ; and we 
may be sure the Swiss gentleman had his, and a 
lost love, which the pensive strain brought back 
from among flowers long withered and dear faces 
nothing now but dust. 

" If we had a guitar," said Nina, " it would be 
something to lean on, so we could sing together. " 

The guitar was brought. " It was left by a poor 
Neapolitan, who died aboard," said the Captain. 
Two of the strings were broken ; but the singer 
pieced them together in the luminous dusk, de- 
clining the help of a lantern's light. "I leave it 
below concert pitch, to make it easy for the 
strings and the singers ; and after a story we will 
try it." 

The story-teller gave the Crimean War. Bather 
a modern tale for one fond of hoary antiquities. 
I suspect it was mainly to recite the " Charge of 
the Light Brigade," which he did with fine spirit, 
and told the death of poor Nolan of the valiant 
heart, and how, the night before the assault on the 



180 The Storied Sea. 

Malakoff, the soldiers in the English camp sang by 
hundreds along the line, — 

" Song of love and not of fame ; 
Forgot was Britain's glory. 
Each heart recalled a different name, 
Yet all sang, ' Annie Laurie.' " 

After that we sang with guitar accompaniment 
" Annie Laurie," Uncle bearing along that singu- 
lar part known to ancient New Englanders as 
" Counter." Then came the " Star-spangled Ban- 
ner ; " " The Marseillaise," out of compliment to 
the Captain; and u John Brown's Body," with 
a rousing chorus. So pleased were we that we 
rapturously applauded ourselves, and treated the 
audience to generous encores. The prettiest thing 
was a Spanish song of Nina's about the Rose of 
the Alhambra drooping of loss for a Crusader 
dying before his return from Palestine. Here the 
guitar-strings snapped, and we had to give it up. 

What pride Uncle took in his treasure, hover- 
ing about her with a homely chivalry, watching 
every movement, and coming in on old "John 
Brown" with a booming bass! And, to tell the 
whole truth, we all doted on the light-hearted, lov- 
able girl, so full of winsome ways, with gentle 
fearlessness going through the world unconscious 
that it held anything less innocent than herself. 



The American Girl. 181 

To me she was like some rich, sweet reminiscence 
of a life from which the morning light has van- 
ished. I warmed with her sunny warmth, and 
tasted a little sip of her brimming cup of happi- 
ness that overflowed all it touched. Then she 
looked so fragile, — the look which the travelled 
reader, for whom I do not write, may have seen 
in the faces of Grenze's pictures. My heart 
reached after her in a way known only to moth- 
ers, and not to all mothers, as I noted the differ- 
ence between this refined " rose red" cla}- and 
the stuff of which the shaggy Uncle was made. 

We lingered, sorry to part, till the calm even- 
ing glided into midnight. When the little boat 
came alongside, next morning, Nina said she was 
sorry ; but then they were going to Verona, and 
she should see the House of the Capulets, and the 
tomb of Juliet, and was sure we would meet again. 
The light cradle bowed and courtesied good-by, 
and she made a pennon of the Roman scarf tied 
to Uncle's umbrella. The end dipping into the 
water, she caught it up ; and as the striped 
streamer filled with wind, she sat under it in the 
shimmer of the sea. like Iris under the heavenly 
arch, never spirit of sun or storm, song or fable, 
more lovely. So she floated from sight, and into 
my dreams forever. 



182 The Storied Sea. 

Blessings were showered on her fair young 
head ; the Captain waved his cap ; Oxford politely 
uncovered his baldish pate, where time was mak- 
ing tracks among the blond locks ; Antiquary 
swung his Indian turban gallantly ; — when they 
were lost in a gra3 r vapor, and it was all as a 
dream when one awaketh. 

I must not forget to mention there was a black 
servant aboard, in some menial capacit}' ; a Nu- 
bian, I think. A dwarfish shape, with face so 
badly pitted by small-pox that it looked like a 
burnt waffle. Nina once caught a glimpse of the 
little fellow, and had sent him a small piece of 
gold coin. As she left the steamer, the poor 003- , 
who looked more brute than human, knelt on the 
lower deck, and followed her with eager eyes, ges- 
ticulations, and grimaces that would have been 
laughable, had they not been painful. The lan- 
guage of signs is universal, and we understood it 
was worship of the divinity that had made him rich 
with gold, and her tender pity better than much 
fine gold. Said the Captain : " The poise and 
self-reliance of the American lady are the admira- 
tion of all the world who has the happiness to know 
her. My little daughter, of her age, is in the Con- 
vent of the Sacred Cross, among the holy sisters. I 
wish Mademoiselle At wood had a maid with her." 



The American Girl. 183 

w * The girl who makes her own bonnets has not 
much need of any one to pick up her slippers." 

" Quite right; only it looks somewhat rash to 
be going around in this way. Yet," he added, 
thoughtfully, "elle est a Fabri du mal par la 
purite." 

" Precisely," said Antiquary, triumphantly. 
11 She is sweet as a dream come true, and is 
as well guarded as the Lady in Comas." 

It is doubtful if the Captain of the "Fleur de 
Luce " is acquainted with that divinest Lady ; but 
he murmured, " Vraiment ! vraiment ! " 

" Her visible guardian is enough. Uncle is no 
fool. He watches her like a hawk. Did you no- 
tice how he glowered at Oxford? There was an 
evil brightness in his eyes whenever the young 
gentleman approached his jewel. At the least im- 
pertinence he would think no more of taking that 
upstart by the back of his neck and dropping him 
over the poop than he would of drowning a blind 
puppy. You would have to shoot that man to get 
him out of the way." 

•• She is on a broad and dangerous journey," 
said Thalia, cc and I wish she had some careful 
woman near. But," she continued fervently and 
cheerfully, "we must have faith in the angels. 
They will carry the innocent feet safely along 



184 The Storied Sea. 

greater perils than the edge of Vesuvius, nor will 
she lose any portion of the snowy whiteness of 
the purity which is her best defence. " 

"Well, well, God bless her and her husband 
too. Good and brave, rich and handsome, should 
he be who wins that pretty hand. But women 
marry so strangely, what if she should throw her- 
self away on some cold clod, giving out the whole 
treasure of her loving nature where she can have 
no return? Her heart is deep as the Danube, 
and she may be fated to the silent sisterhood of 
unknown martyrs. We know many such, you 
and I." 

4 'The destinies have no such doom for her," 
said Thalia, warmly. U I have cast her horo- 
scope, and see her future as in a clear glass. She 
will go safely home, bearing the delicious perfume 
of travel, as Longfellow calls it. I read in the 
shady leaves of Destiny that she will marry the 
twenty-fourth Senior, will be a blithe and busy 
housekeeper in some happy valley of the West, 
maybe a snug nest on the edge of a flowery 
prairie. She will be ingenious as the immortal 
New England housekeeper who coul(l drive in 
tacks with a flat-iron and draw them out with a 
spoon-handle ; will make cake in the morning, 
and go to the Shakespeare club in the evening ; 



The American Girl. 185 

be foremost in the fruit and flower mission, and 
the author of a few papers in the St. Nicholas, 
catching a stray leaf from the green Isle of Palms. 
Though not a prophet nor a prophet's son, I fore- 
see that Uncle will enrich her with his corn-lands ; 
her last days will be her best days ; her children 
will rise up and call her blessed; her husband, 
also, and praise her." 

Thalia has latterly developed a suspicions 
amount of sentiment. It may be possible she 
is thinking of exchanging her weeds for orange 
blossoms. 

But what ailed the day ? I did not know our 
steamer could be so dull. Slight clouds obscured 
the sun, and, with quick perception of the beau- 
tiful, an Italian sailor said, " The Signorina with 
the shining face has taken our fair weather with 
her." Later, a fine, cold rain set in, and the party 
was very dismal. Our feeble efforts at gayety 
died a natural death. The gentlemen solaced 
themselves with cigars, and discussed the prehis- 
toric monoliths of Palenque and Copan. Thalia 
fell to crochet, and I turned to }~ou, dear reader, 
for rest and refreshment. The lump of ambergris 
which had flavored the Sultan's cup was missing. 

You who are of my faith that the young Amer- 
ican girl is the sweetest thing created since the 



186 The Storied Sea, 

evening and the morning were the first da} T , read- 
ily understand this is not an ideal sketch. The 
subject of it is not unknown in Baltimore. In 
Washington she has shed a soft light, like a rose- 
blush, in the Arctic Circle (sometimes called the 
Diplomatic) ; and in the little town of Athena, 
not a thousand miles west of Indianapolis, look 
in the mirror, O my darling, and behold — a 
portrait. 

With dire forebodings these last two papers 
are committed to the post. The Judicious Friend 
who wants accurate information condemns them 
as light and trifling. Oh, J. F., if you hunger 
and thirst after knowledge, read Buckle's " His- 
tory of Civilization" and Hallam's " Middle 
Ages," refresh your thirsty soul with salubrious 
pages of Gibbon, or come home to the free ban- 
quet spread in our own " Congressional Globe ; " 
but as for me and mine, we do not steer for the 
Valley of Dry Bones, 

"As we sail, as we sail." 




5B5E5E5E5E55555Z5g5E555E5B5E5g5E5B5E5g5ESE5E5Z5E5E5E5^1 



XV. 



m 



SOMETHING ABOUT HOMER. 

E were warmly invited and urged to visit 
the scenes of the Iliad, but did not 
go. Why should we? It involved tents, 
courier, servants, risk of catching the fever of 
the country, being bitten to death by mosquitoes 
or poisoned by bad water. It is in this classic 
region that the world-renowned Congress of Fleas 
was held. "Had they been unanimous," writes 
the English reporter, " they could have lifted me 
out of bed ; but, luckily, there was a division, and 
I never discovered to which side I belonged." 

Malaria hangs heavily over the Troad, and 
powerful doses of quinine are needed to save the 
pilgrim from the pestilence that walketh in 
darkness and wasteth at noonday. Not so bad 
as the Roman Campagna, where it is death to 
sleep; but surpassing the swamp lands of the 
Mississippi Valley in the dread month of August, 



188 The Storied Sea. 

when ripe vegetation is rotting and the ague 
hangs its yellow sign over the smitten faces in 
the farm-houses. I had thought some spot was 
happily exempt from this curse of the world ; 
but no, even in rainless Egypt the overflow of 
the Nile leaves lagoons and marshes, — lurking- 
places for the insidious enemj', not numbered 
among the ancient plagues. 

We knew exactly what was to be seen in the 
little town, never containing over four thousand 
citizens, which has held a large place in the 
imaginations of ninety generations of men. I 
have been sadly disillusione in many things since 
I used to fancy those famous walls — which some 
wise men contend w r ere made of adobes — w r ere 
high as the stupendous walls of Bab} Ion, and the 
Scsean gate was like the brazen gates of mighty 
Thebes. From the deck of the tc Fleur de Luce " 
we saw — or fancied we could see, which was 
just as well — the point of land where poor 
Hecuba was buried, and about a league away the 
promontoiy of Sigeum. Ambitious students climb 
to the top, where Achilles is buried ; and there 
Alexander ran naked round his tomb, in honor 
of his manes, — doubtless to the great comfort of 
that unquenchable and unresting spirit. Had we 
strained over scorched plain and stony roads on 



Something about Homer. 189 

a back-breaking donkey, it had been to see 
nothing but a few slow men, digging at a lei- 
surely rate in the poor, burnt-out soil. Priam's 
treasure-house has been rifled ; there is no chance 
for finding golden relics of Paris, Helen's neck- 
lace, or Hector's spear. If such inestimable 
treasure from that far epoch lay there, it would 
not be for us, but would be caught up and 
appropriated before our eyes beheld it. 

Had we chosen to camp near the desert hills, 
we might have watched in vain for the gleam of 
lance, shield, or helmet of flitting spectres, re- 
vealed in visions to the believing Grecian. 
Certain scholars, who see with eyes anointed, 
have been known to recognize the tall shade of 
Agamemnon, with gigantic stride, looming above 
the tumuli ; and, stately and sullen, the skulking 
shadow of Ajax, remembering in eternity the 
old spites against his chief and the hate still 
rankling against the successful rival for the ce- 
lestial armor of Achilles. 

If my precious reader wants to see what the 
gods are doing now, lie must summon buoyant 
courage, high hope, and robust faith, and for him- 
self call up the ghosts out of the underworld, and 
with phantoms repeople the lone city of Priam. 

After the destruction of Troy, a new city of 



190 The Storied Sea. 

the same name was built by Alexander, about 
thirty stadia from the ancient site. I take this 
fact from the guide-book, and hope you know 
what a stadium is. I do not. 

Dr. Schliemann's experience illustrates the sus- 
taining power of faith, even in earthly things. 
The doubters and scoffers are silenced by his 
convincing testimony, and their sneers no longer 
assail the wondrous tale of Troy divine. Pale 
shades hover about, perplexing the student with 
inconstant shadows; but localities are fixed. 
Yon strip of volcanic earth and rock is Tenedos, 
the station to which the Greeks withdrew their 
fleet, in order to induce the Trojans to believe 
they had sailed away and to receive the wooden 
horse. 

And that is Imbros, lying in the azure sea. 
The space opposite them is the plain where the 
tents of the Greeks were pitched, and from which 
they were chased to the ships. Here the gallej's 
and triremes unloaded the troops ; and this ex- 
quisite air — for sea and skj T alone are unchange- 
able — echoed the musical shouts of noisy sailors, 
and the thundering voices of the Trojan peers and 
sceptred kings of Greece, as they battled in never- 
ending duels. Their light boats must have had a 
time landing, for the winds were fitful and capri- 



Something about Homer. 191 

cions and are yet. You remember that in one of 
these isles iEolus reigned, — the monarch who 
showed Ulysses his twelve children, and who had 

dominion over the twelve winds, — and here the 
wanderer received of him an ox's hide, enclosing 
all the winds, leaving free none but the friendly 
home wind, to play in the sails, murmur of quiet 
havens, and waft them gently back to Ithaca. 

What dire misfortunes befell when the covetous 
mariners untied the precious bag, thinking it 
loaded with gold, when out they rushed with 
hissing sound, like the rush of many waters. Is 
it not all written in the stoiy-books ; and how the 
ship was driven back in one hour Avhat it had 
taken nine days to track ; and the remorse and 
despair of the men, and the noble forbearance of 
their chief ? 

The breezes have never been prisoners since 
then. xEolus still hunts the whirlwinds over 
land and sea, and they blow this way and that, 
making heavy seas, which in the Olympian dis- 
pensation went hard with the sailers, but do not 
greatly affect our steamers. 

Here the fifty ships of Achilles anchored, and 
this is the coast-line which bounded his vision for 
nine years. lie is the true hero of the Iliad, 
and carries away our whole heart with the palm 



192 The Storied Sea. 

of strength and grace. For he was bravest and 
handsomest of the bravest, handsomest race this 
old earth of ours has produced, and he knew well 
how to win favor in the eyes of beautiful women. 
Affectionate and tender, though he had been fed 
on the hearts of lions and the marrow of bears ; 
and, when the choice was offered, preferred to 
die eari} T and gloriously, rather than live a long 
life of inglorious ease. Reading the record among 
these old shadows, we easily forgive his quarrel 
with the king of men, when he shook his golden 
locks and shut himself up in his tent, refusing to 
take further part in the war, till roused by the 
voice of his mother to avenge the death of his 
dearest friend. And then to lie, dying, at the 
Scsean gate, having fought the battle only to 
miss the victoiy. There is no histoiy half so real 
as this legendary and supernatural story, nor any 
pathos equal to the struggle where the gods took 
part and talked to men as friend with friend. 

How weary those ten years of siege, let those 
tell who have had one year in the dreary mo- 
notony of a changeless camp. In every arm}' the 
few fierce hours of combat bear a slight propor- 
tion to long intervals, where the dull, slow weeks 
drag after each other in unvaiying sameness. 
No wonder the tenth year was one of domestic 



Something about Homer. 193 

quarrels. You soldiers, who have cursed with 
curses loud and deep the inaction of your superior 
officers while you were panting for a move, or, in 
the classic language of the modern camp, spoiling 
for a fight, can best fancy the undying hates 
nursed in the ample leisure of ten years. With 
what strength the feuds grew and enlarged in 
each hateful day of enforced idleness ! How the 
grudges and rankling jealousies burnt deeper and 
deeper, while the soul of Agamemnon, king of a 
hundred kings, rejoiced over the dissensions ful- 
filling the sacred prophecy. What storms of 
rage gathered and broke against rival chieftains, 
till in the contest for the arms of Achilles, the 
conquered Ajax rushed into an awful madness, 
slaughtering the sheep of his own arm}', distracted 
by the idea they were enemies, and ending by 
destroying himself. 

These marvellous warriors were clansmen, car- 
rying on the feuds of powerful nobles ; and the 
chiefs naturally varied the vapid monotony of 
inaction by a watchfulness of the weak points of 
former foes, whom they hated more than they 
feared. They neither forgot nor forgave ; and 
memories of gallant deeds gave them boundless 
faith in their ability to conquer wherever they 
chose to plant their standards. 

13 



194 The Storied Sea. 

Whoever has lived in camp can picture the 
weary days, like to each other as the swell and 
fall of the waves on this serene and silent shore. 
Instead of our routine of drill and discipline, the 
Greeks had wrestling matches, foot and chariot 
races, single combats, the discus, and archeiy 
and javelin exercise. The little boats, with sails 
like the wings of swallows, and narrow keels, 
cutting the blue floor, are such as brought recruits 
from Sparta when war was not a science or the 
trade of a separate class, but the pastime of 
princes and the ultimate ambition of kings. 

In their practice men had to stand up to the 
thrust of cold steel and the hideous scent of warm 
human blood, instead of the sulphurous fumes of 
gunpowder and balls, from remote and unseen 
machinery. 

There was no newspaper, to relieve the leaden 
gloom of the ancient da}~s ; no tobacco, to solace 
picket duty ; I doubt if the pa}~master — most 
cheering apparition — appeared at his appointed 
seasons. No cheap novels were scattered about 
the tents, no letters from home, or express boxes ; 
it is not known if the}' had the comfort of cards ; — 
nothing but their darling hates to cherish and 
keep warm ; and how dear these ma}' become, 
the veteran in no way like Themistocles may tell 



Something about Homer. 195 

as he recalls those old nights when the trophies 
of another would not let him sleep. 

The ancient beauty has not disappeared from 
the beautiful race, though alien blood has cor- 
rupted the pure strain, till it is no longer the rule, 
but the exception. When found, it is a thing to 
dream of. I once saw a fisher boy, or, rather, 
youth, on one of the Cyclades, mending his net, 
who had a face correct as the statue of Antinous. 
He was dressed in greasy tarpaulin ; on his short, 
clustering locks a fillet of red cord gave the final 
picturesque touch to a perfect head. As he lifted 
his dreamy brown eyes to gaze on the passing 
stranger, so Paris might have looked on many- 
fountained Ida. So looked the shepherd boy b} T 
the moon's light on old Latinos, when Dian 
stooped to kiss him. 

Did you ever think, dear reader, what deep 
consolation those miraculous beings descended 
from gods found in eating? Have \o\\ consid- 
ered the charming simplicity of their banquets? 
When the king of men, towering above all Gre- 
cians in dignity, majesty, power, entertained in 
his grand pavilion, Clytemnestra was not con- 
cerned about aesthetic china and the like, nor did 
she look after the forks and spoons, for there 
were none. The leaders of the hosts of Greece 



196 The Storied Sea. 

and the confederate kings banqueted on beef 
killed, skinned, and roasted before their eyes. 
Pretty tough it was, too ! 

" A steer for sacrifice the king designed, 
Of full five years and of the nobler kind. 
The victim falls, they strip the smoking hide, 
The beast they quarter and the joints divide, 
Then spread the tables, the repast prepare, 
Each takes his seat and each receives his share. 
The king himself (an honorary sign) 
Before great Ajax placed the mighty chine." 

Imagine the godlike Ajax tearing away at the 
marrow bones with his dripping fingers. Heroic 
feasts for heroic stomachs, always ready for a 
square meal. Philosophers call this living near to 
Nature. They tell us the modern Greeks have a 
wonderful gift of speech-making, like their long- 
gone ancestors, and in their musical tongue they 
hand down from wrinkled age to blooming youth 
the mist} T traditions of bygone glory. They have, 
too, tales of the farthest East, of sorceries and 
witchcraft, of charms and drugs possessed with 
magic, genii and afrite, and hidden treasures in 
enchanted caverns. The legends of unknown 
antiquity have easy faith among them, supernatu- 
ral agencies are trusted, and sailors in every sea 
are more or less superstitious. 



Something about Homer. 197 

An isolated life tends to nurture weird fancies, 
and the spinning of yarns is heard wherever wood 
will float. The enjoyment of the story-teller de- 
pends largely on the interest and patience of the 
listener, and the rare, fine talent of continuous 
attention is a peculiar attribute of the boatmen 
of the Levant. One man will tell a tale lasting 
through the mariner's leisure hours for a week, 
and the audience remains unwearied and atten- 
tive. Watching the long-protracted sessions of 
amusement in these times of interruption and im- 
patience, one has the same sensation as in look- 
ing through certain books newly issued from the 
press ; the wonder is not that they were written, 
but that they are ever read. 

An army of imaoinino- men, as the actors in the 
great epic have been well called, naturally located 
in Samothrace, the Holy Hill, the watch-tower of 
Jove the Thunderer. From that ethereal height he 
despatched the Twin Brothers, of matchless swift- 
ness and silent pace, to bear away the body of 
Sarpedon, fair as in life and undefiled, though 
dragged through the dust of the crimsoned plain. 
In the soft arms of silent Sleep and Death they 
floated the young spirit home to eternal rest in 
the bosom of his father. 

You sad mourner for the brave and the beau- 



198 The Storied Sea. 

tiful, see the rich meaning, passing the wisdom of 
the wise, garnered in the fanciful truths to which 
we give the name of fables. 

We disputed about the geography of the Iliad. 
Who does not? But I am not disposed to get 
into hot water, — like the wise counsellor, u would 
fain die a dry death," — and therefore reserve 
argument till we meet face to face, O my beloved ! 
We heard the surge and thunder of the Odyssey, 
though steering through a summer sea, and, wind- 
ing among the historic isles, many times we said, 
"How like New Mexico ! " They are arid upheav- 
als of volcanic rock, bare reddish slopes, at torrid 
heat in the noonda} r shining. There may be ver- 
dure and bloom on the sides away from the sight, 
but from the deck of the " Fleur de Luce" we 
saw little vegetation. We had expected gardens 
and vineyards, bowers of roses, with birds-of-par- 
adise and butterflies darting like winged thoughts 
among them, tangled vines, festoons of ivy in 
luxuriant verdure running wild. I had pictured 
pomegranate-trees with blossoms like flame glow- 
ing in a background of tender green ; but we did 
not find them. Here and there was a tower or 
castle, old in stoiy, picturesque and venerable, 
which had withstood strokes of stones hurled by 
the catapult, and scars gashed and torn by bat- 



Something about Homer. 199 

tering-rams ages before gunpowder was in some 
sort anticipated by Greek fire. 

On those isles of barrenness and rock are 
sparse, straggling villages, meagre gardens of 
scant, starved herbage ; along the dried-up streams, 
not a willow large enough for Homer to hang his 
harp on. 

The winding Mseander is shrunken to a mere 
thread now, and the Scamander, — " the divine 
Scamander,'' fed by springs on Ida, — once choked 
with dead bodies by Achilles, would not float a 
single corpse now. Yet this is haunted ground, 
most interesting h\ association reaching to a hoary 
antiquity. Here the blind first singer wandered 
with footsteps set to music, and sung high, heroic 
measures, — not such songs as we hear to-day from 
strolling minstrels, who thus make their bread. 
T^ait till the sun sets in a sk}' absolved from every 
taint of cloud or mist, and the remotest island 
becomes a soft purple stain on the horizon ; when 
the highest peak is a mount of transfiguration, an 
unknown heavenly land in a glory of ineffable 
loveliness, blent of violet, rose, and gold ; — in this 
tranquil hush the winds and the waves arc at their 
evening song, answering the wooing sirens. We 
forget the wrathful gods and the petty warring in 
the battle we call life, and deeply feel all that poets 



200 The Storied Sea. 

have sung and dreamers dreamed in this Kingdom 
of the Beautiful Myths. The thrilling sense passes 
with the hours, the glare of next day's noon is 
a disenchanter, and the dim vision of the night 
seems vague and unreal as the vanishing mirage 
of some long-gone summer morning. Still, Mem- 
ory, who loses more than she treasures, will never 
let that heavenly picture go. The moon was at 
its full when we made the voyage of the Homeric 
Islands. That night, — what was it but the deli- 
cate shade of a da} T that is dead ? The white 
moonshine touched with silver the bright hair of 
Thalia, as she leaned over the guard to watch the 
dolphins play and hearken to the rhythmic flow 
of the water. The sea seemed to listen as she 
murmured, — 

11 In such a night as this, 
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees 
And they did make no noise, — in such a night 
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, 
And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents, 
Where Cressid lay that night." 

It was the voice of the poet of the past saluting 
the poet of all time. 




XVI. 



ABOUT SMYRNA. 



PART I. 




HE guide-book sa}'s the early history of 
Smyrna is disfigured by fables. Let us 
rejoice that a place in American minds 
associated only with figs lives in the pale twi- 
light of fable, where flickering mythic lights pro- 
duce lovely effects, changing men to demigods 
and making heroes of common clay. I have 
written elsewhere, and of a very different people, 
that there is no myth without its teaching. Most 
exquisite poetry veils subtle meaning, and the 
old pagans well knew the deep wisdom that lay 
hidden in their fantasies, to which the modern 
unbeliever attaches no value. 

Isman Giaour, or Infidel Smyrna, is one of the 
Amazon cities whose names have faded from his- 
tory and are lost to the chronicler. My classic 



202 The Storied Sea, 

reader, if I am so fortunate as to have one, will 
remember how, toward the conclusion of the 
Trojan War, the Amazon queen came to the city 
of Priam with the gallant band of archers, and 
rushed on the Greeks, and how she was killed by 
the great-souled Achilles. It was to this city, 
"where the blue-haired sea shakes the land," 
that Circe sent for the enchanted wine b}' which 
men were transformed into swine, all except the 
wise Ulysses. Over him the Daughter of the Day 
had no witchery with her sorceries, because the 
messenger of the gods, swift Hermes, had given 
him to wear the small white blossom called moly, 
which was a charm against every sort of magic. 
I love to think young eyes, not dimmed b}~ age, 
tears, or studj', read this paper, and so I tell the 
old tale of Circe once more. 

She was one of a family of sorcerers, sister of 
Medea, and she lived in a pleasant island near 
the floating Isle of ^Eohis, named iEsea, and was 
wisest of all men and women. Only the superior 
gods were wiser. The haughtj 7 beauty was the 
child of the Sun. The brightness of her father's 
face shone in her hair, her voice was a moving 
music that charmed the ear and ravished the 
soul. She held her proud state in a palace built 
of precious stones and jewels, that sparkled like 



About Smyrna. 203 

fire, lighting the hill on which it stood, and show- 
ing the road up which she enticed man}' lovers. 
Before the shining gate lay many animals, once 
wild, now made tame by her art, — wolves gentle 
as lambs, lions which had forgotten their fierce- 
ness, and spotted leopards soft and playful as kit- 
tens. Hard by was a herd of swine in a disgust- 
ing sty, — grunting, squealing, wallowing brutes, 
that were once brave, victorious heroes. Vainly 
did thev entreat her pity ; from that horrid spot, 
morning and evening, noon and midnight, went 
up the cry: u O Circe, give back my manhood ! 
hear, oh, hear my prayer ! " But she was deaf 
to entreaty. By a crystal window of the palace 
she sat at her loom, her long hair floating like 
a golden glory round her, as she spun and wove a 
web of mingled silver and gold, the colors of the 
night and day. It was a subtle fabric, finished 
with a skill which she had gained of the gods, 
and so glorious mortal eye could scarcely look 
upon, much less imitate it. When a strong wind 
would bring to her the words of the prayers of 
transformed wanderers, a strange light burned in 
the steadfast eyes of the fair witch maiden, and 
the magic of her glance was the surer. At times 
she sung, as she spun, a song of ineffable sweet- 
ness, such as drew men against their will to her 



204 The Storied Sea. 

feet, almost their very souls out of their bodies. 
When it sounded from the palace window, the 
clouds stood still in mid blue and listened, the 
trees bent their high heads and hushed the flutter 
of their leaves, and all animals held their breath 
to hear. That was her chosen moment to offer 
the SmjTna wine to the enraptured worshippers ; 
and she rejoiced in reducing them to beasts most 
wretched, because in the metamorphose the} T 
kept their human hearts unchanged. Happier 
had the} 7 been doomed to wander, forlorn manes 
of unburied bodies, by the shores of the forgetful 
river and the dreaded St}^x, denied by the Fates 
a rest in the land of Shades, condemned to flit 
forever along the fields of the dead. 

Circe was a mighty magician ; besides the 
power which brought the sagest of scholars to 
knock at her gates, she could move the moon 
from her sphere, make the sun turn pale, the 
stars whirl out of their courses, and the rocks 
and hills to clap their hands. She had delights 
and recreations "to fetch the day about from 
sun to sun, and rock the tedious year as in a de- 
lightful dream." She had sworn by the Styx 
the dread oath of the gods to bring Ulj'sses into 
her toils. 

'T is an old tale, and often told, how Ulysses, the 



About Smyrna. 205 

waster of cities, learning that his companions 
had vanished by foul witchcraft, snatched his 
sword and bow, to rescue his companions from 
the strong spell of the great enchantress. Guided 
by the song of matchless charm, like the lyre of 
Orpheus, he sought alone the shining, lion-guarded 
gate, where his men la}', grunting swine. They 
crawled to his feet, incapable of speech, licked 
his hands, and by hideous noises made him under- 
stand they recognized their noble leader. How 
the sorceress failed in her scheme of conquest of 
the immortal Greek, is it not all written in the 
books of the Chronicles of heroes? And what 
are the myths but cloud}' shapes through which 
the acts, deeds, and thoughts of olden time are 
floated down to ns in a dim and shadowy light, 
all loveliness? 

To ears tuned aright the siren with the drink- 
ing-cup of strong Smyrna wine is singing here 
yet, and the modest little herb, with the white 
blossom, called moly, is only the white flower of 
a spotless life, which none wore of old but the 
blameless knight Ulysses, — he who never forgot 
in ten years the cliffs of rocky Ithaca, his first 
love, fair Penelope- 7 and her child, waiting by 
the seashore for his return. 

Yet the guide-book tells us Smyrna is dis- 
figured by fables. 



206 The Storied Sea. 

There were settlements on this coast when 
Rome was merely a group of straw-built huts on 
the Palatine ; when Samson, blind and fettered, 
did grind in the prison-house of his enemies ; 
when our British ancestors were living in caves, 
eating roots and dressed in shaggy skins of wild 
animals. There were towns of respectable size 
near the sea before the first of the Moguls was 
enthroned at Delhi. Before Alexander wept 
because there were no more worlds to conquer, 
here were hills white with temples and palaces 
fcC ribbed with colonnades " of fairest marble. 

The bustle and activity of this modern Smyrna, 
a Greek city of 180,000 souls, overpower the 
gray antiquity of the place, and onh r by far- 
sighted glances do we penetrate to the beginnings 
of this least sluggish of all Asiatic towns. The 
soft Oriental repose of the East is broken at 
Smyrna by the wily Greeks, who may have for- 
gotten, though we can never forget, their glorious 
ancestors. It is one of the seven cities claiming 
the birth of Homer. A cave was shown where 
he wrote his verses ; here was ancientl}* his 
temple, and here he received divine honors and 
medals were stamped with his name. Let us not 
be of the number of unbelievers who think his 
fame was obscured in life. There were hearers 



About Smyrna. 207 

then who believed his songs excelled nil that can 
ever be written. And at the end of the hymn 
to the Deliafl Apollo, which Thucydides cites as 
genuine, occurs the following passage : "Farewell, 
all ye virgins ; and remember me hereafter, when- 
ever any one of men upon the earth, any hapless 
stranger, ma} r come hither and inquire of yon, 
% Who is, in your opinion, the sweetest of the 
minstrels that dwell here, and with which of them 
are yon most charmed? ' Then do yon all an- 
swer, with the utmost cheerfulness, 'A blind man, 
and he dwells in rocky Chios.' " 

By the way, dear reader, when you visit Rome, 
fail not to see the old bust of Horner, a grand, 
majestic head, the sightless balls at rest, in the 
fixed calm of resignation to the greatest earthly 
ills. Forget it not, I pray } T ou. Once seen, it 
will be remembered ever after. 

In this Jewel of the East, named the 4t Crown of 
Ionia," beautiful sculptured stones are occasion- 
ally wrought into modern houses ; fragments of 
temples and ruined fanes of the Byzantine period, 
hinting of the lovely dead and gone religion which 
had its devout worshippers when the deathful 
sirens sang along these shores. Corners of ex- 
quisite marbles are scattered about the hills, 
piercing the burnt-out soil, and, could we dig, 



208 The Storied Sea, 

doubtless fluted columns and exquisitely carved 
capitals would be unearthed, bearing great his- 
tories and teaching deep lessons. If \o\x have a 
taste for research and love to copy inscriptions, 
you find something to repay a weary and danger- 
ous tramp over the volcanic hills. There is much 
unexplored territory and unnamed " diggings," 
that would well reward the miner who might be 
privileged to set up his claim and push his w^ork 
with diligence and intelligence. 

Stately and solemn cypresses mark the Turkish 
burial-place on Mount Pagus, and here ruins trace 
the outlines of fortified cities, populous and strong, 
which have perished from the face of earth and 
the memories of men. 

I will not weary my beloved by telling the 
many vicissitudes through which the Queen of 
the Levant has passed, — how the Ephesian and 
iEolian Greeks battled for it ; how it was attacked 
by Gyges, the king with the ring (which story 
with difficulty I suppress) ; how she has suffered 
by fire, earthquake, pestilence, by siege, fam- 
ine, flood, and plague. It w r as the " pearl of 
Asia," and passed from hand to hand, the spoil 
of many victors, long before Columbus sailed 
over the ocean blue. In the Greek period it 
was called the "Forest of Philosophers," the 



About Smyrna. 209 

" Museum of Ionia," the " Asylum of the Muses 
and Graces." The battles and sieges of Saracens, 
Crusaders, Genoese, Turks, battered the old walled 
city ; and phantom images of vast power may 
easily be invoked b} T the imaginative traveller. 

The dead of many centuries rise and w r alk 
abroad at his bidding, sunken ships sail up again, 
and spectral armies land on the sunny shore. 
Phoenician adventurers fought here, and many 
heroes passed this way when the Pillars of Pler- 
cules bounded the known world. They bore 
swords that flashed like Excalibur, and suffocated 
under chain mail and cloth of gold, — conquerors 
bound for the Holj T Sepulchre, like Macbeth, 
bloody, bold, and resolute, ready to do or die for 
the Cross. Among them were princes of high 
courage and undying devotion to the Crusades ; 
chivalrous and haughty nobles, whose defiant 
boast was that, if the sky w r ere to fall, they would 
uphold it on the points of their lances. Minstrels 
and troubadours hymned the praises of leaders 
whose word was victory, whose eye was the bright 
star of battle and conquest ; and wherever harp 
was heard and sword worn, the fame of the 
princes was chanted, with vows to plant the 
banner of the Christian on the walls of Zion. 
She who wound garlands for helmets worn in 
14 



210 The Storied Sea. 

such cause was blessed among women ; and at 
home, in her bower, little could the high-born 
maiden understand how the iron host, with spears 
glancing, plumes dancing, standards waving in 
the pride of unconquered intolerance, might fail 
to make a speed}' conquest of Palestine. 

The high courage of steel-clothed nobles, rid- 
ing the heavy steeds of the West, sunk under 
burning sun and sand against the wiry Asiatic 
horsemen, all brawn and muscle, mounted on 
horses called the winged, which eveiy true be- 
liever knows were a gift of the Prophet himself 
to the blessed Ali, his kinsman and lieutenant, 
well called the Lion of God. 

Turn to the historians for records of all the 
changes which have befallen the finest city of the 
East after Constantinople. For half a century it 
was held by the Christian Knights of St. John, of 
Jerusalem, and in that time twice besieged by 
Sultans Amurath I. and Bayazeed I., they leading 
their armies in person. It held out, this glitter- 
ing prize, against the Ottoman Empire till Timour 
came, in 1402. He besieged the city, then hand- 
some, regular, and well built, in fifteen da}'s had 
a mole thrown across the harbor, which cut off 
supplies and brought the Mongol troops close to 
the seaward parts of the place. The land walls 



About Smyrna. 211 

were undermined, stupendous works constructed, 

from which the besiegers mounted the battlements, 
and Smyrna was carried by storm, despite the he- 
roic defence of Christian knights and citizens of 
Ephesus, who took to their galleys. This scourge 
of the earth, who shed more blood and caused 
more misery than an}' other human being that was 
ever born upon it, then ordered a general massacre 
of the inhabitants of the devoted city, and they 
were slaughtered, without mercy to age or sex. 
The Tartar hordes from the siege of Sivas (where 
the conquered Christians had been buried alive, 
their heads tied down by cords lashed tightly 
round the neck and under the thighs so as to 
bring the face between the legs) were ready for 
more blood. Their insatiate thirst w T as yet un- 
slaked, and they were let loose on Giaour Smyrna. 
The records of that butchery are like the frightful 
remembrance of some ghastly dream. Yet he was 
only following his customary habit. Timour would 
slay every male of a tribe, and send its women 
into such distant captivity that its name would 
never be heard again by the ears of men. To burn, 
to overpower, to strike to the dust, sow with salt, 
annihilate, was the aim of Timour, whose name, 
meaning "iron," represented in the minds of Ori- 
entals the resistless force with which he subdued 



212 The Storied Sea, 

all things. The pompous titles — Great Wolf, 
Lord of the Age, Conqueror of the World — were 
no empt}' vaunt appropriated by the man who, in 
the thirty-six years of his reign, united in one bar- 
baric despotism the sovereignties of twenty-seven 
countries, and who ruled in the place of nine sev- 
eral dynasties of kings. He countermanded no 
order once issued, and it was his maxim never to 
repent and never to regret. He declared that, as 
there is but one God in heaven, so there ought to 
be but one lord on earth, and that all the king- 
doms of the universe were too small for the ambi- 
tion of one great emperor. His sword is still 
shown in the Imperial Treasury at Stamboul. 

Let me enrich my page with a few sentences 
from Creasy's " History of the Ottoman Turks : " 
"The career of Timour as a conqueror is un- 
paralleled in history, for neither Cyrus, nor Alex- 
ander, nor Caesar, nor Attila, nor Jengis Khan, 
nor Charlemagne, nor Napoleon ever won by the 
sword so large a portion of the globe, or ruled 
over so many myriads of his subjugated fellow- 
creatures. His triumphs were owing not only to 
personal valor and to high military genius, but to 
his eminent skill as a politician and ruler. He had 
such an ascendency over his soldiers that they 
not only underwent the severest privations and 



About Smyrna. 213 

lavished their lives at his bidding, but would, if 
Timour ordered, abstain from plunder in the hour 
of victory, and give up the spoils of war without 
a murmur. He was a generous master ; but his 
cruelty to those who ventured to resist him sur- 
passes all the similar horrors with which military 
history is so rife. Timour evidently employed 
terror as one of his principal instruments of con- 
quest, and tli3 punishments which he inflicted on 
whole populations often show the cold, calculating 
subtilty of a practised tormentor, rather than the 
mere savage ferocity of an irritated despot." 

It was the custom of this Tartar chief to build 
a vast pyramid of human heads when his army 
revelled after any famous victory and capture. 
The prisoners slain at Smyrna were not in suf- 
ficient numbers to furnish material for such a 
memorial tower on his usual scale of hideous gran- 
deur. But he would not leave the beautiful bay 
without the usual fearful monument, and he or- 
dered the heads to be placed between alternate 
layers of mud plaster, thus to swell the height. 
Says a quaint old historian: "The -tower was 
made after a new order of architecture, composed 
in part of stone and in part of dead men's skulls, 
•d in order like inlaid work, sometimes full 
face and sometimes side wa vs." 




i(Hg5E5E5E5H5E5E5E5E5HSE5E5B5g5B5H5E5g5E555g5E5E5E5gsg5E5ESB5H5g5a5a 



XVII. 



ABOUT SMYRNA. 



PART II. 




N the old days, when Smyrna belonged to 
the Kingdom of the Beautiful Myths, 
her women were bewitching with graces 
of person and wily arts inherited from the gods. 
The modern Smyrniote has a peculiar witchery of 
her own, which beams from the languid dark eyes, 
and, in a soft repose of manner, she passes the 
daughters of men with her fascinations. How 
idle these women look, sitting in the doors, gazing 
at the passers-by, with eyes like haunted cham- 
bers, unsearchable as midnight, glittering as the 
edge of the sword of the Prophet ! The descrip- 
tions made of them years ago answer as well for 
to-day : leaning out of the lattices, thinking upon 
nothing, idle as painted pictures, which, indeed, 
some of them are. Unchangeable except in 



About Smyrna. 215 

costumes, they have abandoned the flowing dra- 
peries and veiling scarfs of the Orient for the 
modern French dress ; except, here and there, 
one may see in the rich braids of jet black hair a 
long stiletto hair-pin of ancient work, or on the 
low smooth forehead a fringe of pendant coins, 
reminder of Egypt. There is a strong dash of 
Jewish blood, showing mainly in the high nose ; 
and the Greek blood, though thinned by an alien 
strain, beats warm in the people of Asia Minor. 
]\or have they forgotten the names of the dead 
classic times. Aspasia and Sappho make a 
pretence of embroidery, as they look up and down 
the street from the projecting balcony. Aglaia 
and Proserpine yet gather flowers in the beau- 
tiful, close- walled gardens. 

There is a fountain of pure, sparkling water in 
the centre of the city, and of this there is an 
ancient saying : t; Drink once of this water, and, 
though yon fly to the ends of the earth, yon are 
sure to drink again." It is not in the fountain 
alone, grateful and refreshing as it is, that the 
charm of Smyrna lies. There is wonderful fasci- 
nation in the variety of color, costume, nationality, 
which captivates the travellers from the West. 
Along the broad, well-built quay which extends 
almost across the entire length of the city, you 



216 The Storied Sea. 

catch your first glimpse of a caravan of camels, — 
a long train, each sixth one led by a donkey. 
Naturally, the Bible days come into mind. Thus 
came the Queen of Sheba to Solomon, with a very 
great train, — with camels that bore spices and very 
much gold and precious stones. Into this finest 
port and richest city of the Levant pour treasures 
from the four quarters of the globe ; but our inter- 
est is not in the stuffs of France and German}', it 
lies in the bales from Persia. An old chronicler 
of the past century says : " From Persia came two 
thousand bales of silk a year ; medicines, gums, 
balsams ; all sweet spices, furs, and ever}' sort of 
carpet ; the jewels that sparkle on the brow of 
beauty ; the wealth of Ormuz and of Ind ; pearls 
from warm and distant seas ; " and a vague, in- 
definite idea of all things rich and rare is hidden 
in the brown bales on the back of the unwieldy, 
slow-moving beasts. They come from the track- 
less desert, from Bagdad and Balsora, and an 
Arab directs their march ; he is a true believer, 
and thinks the sword of the Prophet is the key 
both of heaven and hell ; he prays five times a 
day, and knows an houri in Paradise is waiting to 
give him the diamond cup of immortality. When 
he unloads at the bazaars, you may see carpets of 
iridescent dyes, soft as finest plush, cloth of gold 



About Smyrna. 217 

and silver, scarfs of Mecca (the Holy City of the 
Prophet), the matchless embroidery Arabesque, 
shawls of Cashmere and India, and muslins like 
woven wind ; but the trickeries and imitations of 
the European are ruining the genuine merchandise 
of the Orient. Base imitation coin is sent to this 
market from England ; and little brass Egyptian 
images are cast in foreign moulds many a hundred 
miles from the land of the Pharaohs, and offered 
as antica. German mixtures are taking the 
place of the rose oil of Damascus, the scent of 
Paradise, and cheap drugs are offered as balm of 
Gilead and Sharon. The velvety mohair fabrics 
are numbered among the lost arts. Beware of 
the imitations, and hearken not to the voice of 
the charmer, charming never so wisely, in the 
bazaars of Smyrna. 

The genuine relics of this city, six times totally 
destroyed, are the citadel on Mount Pagus, an 
Acropolis built by Byzantine emperors on the 
supposed site of a great Cyclopean city, a Gen- 
oese Tower, and remains of a stronghold which, 
antiquarians believe, was founded by Alexander. 
To the Christian (and everything here that is 
not Mohammedan and Jew is called Christian) 
Smyrna is most interesting as one of the Seven 
Churches referred to bv St. John in his vision on 



218 The Storied Sea. 

the lonety Isle of Patmos. It is the only one 
praised except the Church of Philadelphia. Turn 
to the second chapter of Revelation, and read 
what the Beloved Disciple wrote to the First 
Church of Smyrna. The view from the heights 
back of the city is very beautiful, and the railway 
to Ephesus reminds us how the West is encroach- 
ing on the dead stillness of the East. Near the 
summit of Mount Pagus is the site of the ancient 
Stadium, — a large amphitheatre, like the one in 
which Paul fought the beasts at Ephesus. It was 
in this spot that Polycarp died for the faith, in 
the year of our Lord 166. 

The day we landed in Smyrna was St. Pol}'- 
carp's day, and the Bulletin de Smyrne, a news- 
paper about a foot square, contained the following 
announcement : — 

" Vendredi prochain, 29 juillet, etant le premier anniver- 
saire du tremblement de terre dont la ville de Smyrne a 
garde' un si effroyable souvenir, plusieurs Smyrniotes ont 
prie les RR. PP. Capucms de vouloir bien organiser une 
messe (Tactions de graces, en Thonneur du patron de notre 
ville, St-Polycarpe, dont la puissante protection nous a 
preserves du terrible fleau qui a e'prouve si cruellement 
plus tard la ville et les campagnes de Cliio. 

" Les PP. Capucins heureux de pouvoir montrer leur 
empressement en tout ce qui est de Tavantage spirituel des 
catholiques de la ville de Smyrne, font savoir que la dite 



About Smyrna. 219 

Messe sera celebree solennellement a 8.}, et sera terminee 
parle chant de niymnc de St-Polycarpe et la benediction 
do. Ties S. Sacrement. 

" Veuillele bon Dieu exaucer les prieres des Smyrniotes 
et les notres, et etendre tonjours sa protection sur notre 
ville, par ['intercession de notre puissant Patron St- 
Polycarpe. 

"Le Superieur des Capucins." 

Naturally onr thoughts turned to the old story, 
made familiar in childhood b} T Fox's " Book of 
Martyrs/' and with deep interest we traced the 
shape of the ancient theatre where he suffered 
martyrdom. It is the fashion to sneer at these 
records and laugh at the noble spirit which 
taught us how to die grandly, to treat the whole 
story as a myth or a superstition. It is as well 
substantiated as that Caesar was assassinated, 
and to deny it is only to betray ignorance and 
incredulity. 

In the time of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, 
when Rome was mistress of the world, Christians 
were cast to the wild beasts of the arena for the 
amusement of the populace. Roman literature 
contains no tragedies, because the ferocious 
slaughter in public places was bloodier than any 
imagined possibility in written tragedy. It was 
no entertainment to read of groans and tortures, 
when they could be seen and heard throughout 



220 The Storied Sea. 

the Eastern world wherever there was a faction 
to gain or a province to be conciliated. Polycarp 
was the first Bishop of Smyrna. His Life, by 
Eusebius, is the pathetic tale of a gentle, devout 
teacher, a fellow disciple of the beloved one who 
leaned on the Master's breast at the Supper. 

Warned by those who endured persecution, at 
the entreat} 7 of his flock he was persuaded to 
retire to a place of safety, and not needlessl} T 
expose himself to danger. Search was made for 
him, and his hiding-place was betrayed by a child, 
who was tortured till the innocent little fellow 
told the secret. Polycarp still had time to 
escape ; but the single-hearted man remained, 
saying, " The will of God be done." While he 
was being led out from the cave, he melted, for a 
moment, the hearts of his captors by his prayers 
for them. The^y did not hesitate long, and he was 
dragged to the crowded amphitheatre, when the 
games were almost ended. On his entr}-, a loud 
voice, which the old man accepted as a voice 
from Heaven, shouted in cheering tone, " Be 
strong, O Polycarp, and quit you like a man ! " 

The haughty proconsul was moved by the au- 
gust presence and venerable appearance of the 
prisoner, and the appeal of a wrinkled, time-worn 
face, shaded by the shadow of death. 



About Smyrna. 221 

It ma}' be he was stirred to admiration b} T the 
bold, unquenchable spirit, and he urged him, 
again and again, to recant, obey the imperial 
edict, and swear by the fortunes of Caesar. The 
aged saint looked up to heaven, and said, "Away 
with the godless." Once more the proconsul 
urged: "Swear by* Caesar, and I will release 
thee. Revile Christ." Calmly the captive replied : 
fci Eighty and six years have I served him, and 
he never did me a wrong. How, then, can I 
revile my King and 1113' Saviour?" 

Vainly was he threatened with being thrown 
to the lions or being burnt to death. To every 
threat, in defiance of every menace, he quietly 
answered, " I am a Christian." 

The old chronicler says that the}' who looked 
steadfastly on him saw his face as it had been the 
face of an angel. A strange light glowed in it, 
and his body was like that of the Shining Ones, 
as he stood friendless, in lonely majesty, in the 
arena. No soft, fair hand in the balcony to fling 
a rose at his feet, as love's last token ; not one 
of his faithful followers to stand by him. The 
sustaining Presence was unseen, and it could not 
fail, like the help of man. That serene, unfalter- 
ing courage was from the heaven toward which 
he lifted his eager and straining gaze. Eyes 



222 The Storied Sea. 

dimmed with years could yet see in prophetic vis- 
ion the heavens opened, and the saints, in bright 
array, waiting with the crown and the palm for 
those who come up out of great tribulation. 

On the glittering page of Gibbon the reader 
may find descriptions of the Stadium, and the 
strifes of the parties, the betting, the breathless 
interest, beyond the mere passing show exhibited 
to the spectators. What the spectacle was in 
Rome it was in less splendor wherever her stan- 
dards flaunted their purple and gold, and the 
gilded globes blazed in the sunlight. The shape 
of the amphitheatre of Asia Minor was a horse- 
shoe, the stone benches rising in tiers, like ours 
in the opera house. It was open to the sun, 
which here shines with marvellous strength and 
splendor, except where a vast awning, striped in 
bars of crimson and white, shaded the seats of 
the privileged class. The exhibition was free 
to all, and the student of history knows what a 
power it was in the empire to secure popularity. 
The choicest of the gladiators never left the 
Imperial City ; but in such a place as Sm}Tna 
there were always combatants of high prowess 
and world-wide renown. 

The stone benches were solid masonry, as 
though made by the old Cyclopean giants, who 



About Smyrna. 223 

used to haunt this spot. Capable of seating 
many thousands, now all torn away and used for 
modern buildings, except the vomitorla, where 
wild beasts were kept for the games. 

On the day whereof I write, a mighty and piti- 
less multitude was gathered. The seats appor- 
tioned to the vulgar were crowded early ; on the 
reserved seats nearest the oval arena sat the 
titled and high-born visitors ; on the upper tier 
were the women, jewelled and radiant in costly 
raiment, and the rich, bright color which belongs 
to the Orient. Luxurious cushions relieved the 
long-sitting, and refreshing drinks and perfumes 
gratified the beauties, who idly fanned and chat- 
ted, and debated the relative merits of rival gladi- 
ators. There was music, too, the rousing appeal 
of trumpets, as the combatants swept slowly 
round the vast level space, in order to allow 
every eye to scan their brawny limbs and mark 
their steady nerve. And the interest of the 
bloody drama was to rise, as the games went on, 
till the last act and scene were the crowning, ex- 
ultant life or the mangled death of those who 
entered the lists. It was an awful and imposing 
struggle of men, evenly matched, clad in complete 
1. and bearing ponderous bucklers and pointed 
swords. 



224 The Storied Sea. 

From the records, it appears that this da}', the 
28th of Jul}', 166, there had been some sort of 
failure in the day's sport, and the time was spent 
without the ghastly complement of the number 
usually slain. The day was declining. The popu- 
lace was unwearied ; roused by the brutish sports, 
but not sated, though the sand of the arena was 
spotted with crimson, the life-blood of professional 
gladiators or it may be of hapless prisoners. Over 
the merciless crowd was heard a clamor, a roar like 
the rushing of man}' waters, the wild outcry for the 
life of one helpless old man, to finish the day's 
enjoyment. " Away with him, the father of the 
Christians, the subverter of our gods, who teaches 
many not to worship nor adore them ! " They 
shouted for a lion to be let loose against Poly carp. 
Philip of Tralles, the presiding asiarch, refused to 
do this, on the ground that the entertainment was 
ended. Stern officer as he was, he was touched by 
the exalted heroism of the passive prisoner. In the 
moment of deathlike silence which brooded over 
the Stadium, there was not a hand, not even a 
mother's hand, held out for the signal of mercy 
and life. Probably there were those present who 
had heard the fathers tell of the wondrous Man 
of Nazareth, who taught in anguish and in glory 
that his kingdom was not of this world, and who 



About Smyrna. 225 

was crucified on Calvary. They knew, to advo- 
cate the cause was mere]}' to take place by the 
side of Poly carp, so they held their peace. The 
people were warmed into blood, and nothing but 
the death agony could satisfy their lust. 

Around the horseshoe curve, swarming with 
human heads, echoed the cry: u Let him be 
burnt alive." While the object of this concen- 
tred hate stood, Christ-like, calmly pra}ing, 
they rapidly gathered fuel from the baths and 
workshops near, the Jews being most active in 
the work. It was a sublime tragedy. A majestic 
peace was in the martyr's mien, and it was plain 
he held all about him cheap as the dust upon his 
sandals. Possibly he thought some special mir- 
acle would interpose, as did the thirty thousand 
Christians who once fled to St. Sophia and waited 
b} T the altar ; but I do not believe it. Silently he 
ungirded himself, and took his appointed place 
among the fagots. When they were about to 
nail him to the stake, he said, with the pathos of 
one resigned to death, " Let me remain as I am ; 
for He who giveth me strength to sustain the fire 
will enable me also, without your fastening me 
with nails, to endure its fierceness. ,, Putting his 
hands behind him, he suffered himself to be 
bound, and uttered a touching prayer, thanking 

15 



226 27te Storied Sea. 

God, who had counted him worthy the honor of 
martyrdom for the resurrection of eternal life of 
soul and body in Christ, and ascribing glory to 
the blessed Trinity. The fire was kindled ; but 
a strong wind blew the flames to one side, so he 
was roasted, rather than burned. Upon which 
the executioner was ordered to despatch him 
with his sword. When it was plunged into the 
poor, tortured body, the blood flowed so fast as 
to quench the flames, which were rekindled ; for 
the Jews were anxious to have it consumed, 
" lest," said they, " these people should leave the 
worship of the Crucified One for this man Poly- 
carp." So into the immortal rest he entered. 
The play was played out. In the ferocious as- 
sembly, a mixed multitude, there was a monstrous 
sense of satisfaction. The desire of sacrifice 
was satiated, the thirst for slaughter was slaked. 
The soft Asian twilight shone on a little heap of 
ashes, holy dust, that was gathered up by a sor- 
rowing band of his faithful followers, and buried 
in a spot of which the tradition has been kept un- 
broken from that claj x . We know we are on the 
place of the martyrdom, and close to his tomb, 
which is almost at the entrance of the Stadium. It 
is still visited with devotion by Greeks of Smyrna. 
The hillside where that precious dust was laid 



About Smyrna, 227 

rises to the southeast of the city, and a sentinel 
cypress-tree, straight, tall, and unbending, guards 
the sacred shrine. So let it rest till the angels of 
the Resurrection shall gather from the four winds 
of heaven the holy dead who have died for the 
Lord. 

That life did not pass like the shadow of a 
cloud, the dream of a sleeper. The light kin- 
dled in the arena has never been extinguished in 
Giaour Smyrna, and it never can be, for the Truth 
itself has said, " Heaven and earth shall pass 
away, but my word shall never pass." 

We are Hearing the great city of the Crescent 
and the Star. The reader who has so kindly 
journeyed with me thus far will admit I have re- 
frained from the cheap pedantry of guide-book 
wisdom, and from loading down with useful in- 
formation, — temptations which easily beset the 
traveller. Gracious presences have hovered about 
me on the wa} T , as in the grand pictures cherubs 
circle the Madonnas with wings invisible. 

I have tried to be agreeable ; only this. If 
a dark day lias been brightened, a dull hour 
cheered, a tired mother beguiled of her cares in 
homes my feet may never enter, tell me, O be- 
loved, for 'tis to you I have written these mes- 
9. Good-night. 




XVIII. 

POSTSCEIPT. 

HEN we had been about six months in 
Constantinople, one day we four were 
straying through St. Sophia's. It has not 
the charm of St. Peter's or of Westminster Abbey, 
but there is a ponderous weight of history on the 
gloomy old mosque, enough to make it a favorite 
haunt for Antiquary, and after a few hours of 
sight-seeing we usually drop in there an hour or 
so. The small boy who picks out bits of stone 
and glass from mosaics on the walls had met us 
and made us his own, and we carried hanclfuls of 
souvenirs for far-off friends to hang with other 
endearing t young charms on slight chains. 

Said Antiquary, didactically, as we paused 
under one of the great cherubim in the angles of 
the arcades : " This mighty fabric, so shaken yet 
so enduring, seems to me the best type of the 



Postscript. 229 

kingdom of Mohammed.. Made of elegant mate- 
rial and of tremendous extent, capable of holding 
twenty-five thousand persons, the collected rob- 
beries and spoils from Troy, monuments from the 
Greek Isles, from Athens, from the Temple of 
the Sun at Baalbek, and heathen shrines where 
' the gorgeous East with richest hand showers o'er 
her kings barbaric pearl and gold' — " 

•• And what a bother to try and remember 
which is which ! " broke in Thalia. 

4 'To some persons," retorted the historian, 
with a satiric bow. "I was about to say," he 
continued stubbornly and oratorically, "with all 
its strength unsightly without, in its clumsy props 
against earthquake and time, — crutches for the 
decrepitude of age. The interior, of rarest work- 
manship, in dimness and dirt, a squalid magnifi- 
cence ; the costly marbles of the floor overlaid 
with filthy matting and carpets. Look at the 
colossal columns from Heliopolis, out of line, 
banded with brass and tilting uneasih', suggesting 
the tottering sick man, tenacious of life, who is 
not going to die suddenly, as the Russian Emperor 
once fondly hoped, and so settle the long unsettled 
ern Question. Then this wonderful, this 
matchless dome," he pursued, warming with his 
subject, — " its arch airy, graceful, as the blue arch 



230 The Storied Sea. 

above it, — builders sa}- it may fall any moment 
and crush the faithful at prayer below. Well 
are they named the faithful, intent on their wor- 
ship, not noticing us any more than if we were 
so man} r ants. And to think this very hour all 
may go to pieces, like the so-called crumbling 
Ottoman Empire, which has* a powerful adhesive 
quality of its own, and lasts, though swept by tem- 
pests of armies, fenced by sleepless foes without, 
betrayed by traitors within, — lasts in spite of 
empty treasury and bankrupt credit, cheerless, 
despairing, but not quite exhausted." 

' ' Precisely ; and having held together at this 
pitch through centuries, the tough old concern 
may hang on many generations to come. They 
have the same saying of St. Sophia that they had 
in Rome of the Coliseum, ' AYhile stands the Col- 
iseum' — you know the rest." 

"Yes," answered Thalia, smiling brightly; 
" it "s one of the few pieces of guide-book wisdom I 
do know. The placid Turk serenely waits for the 
decree written in the fatal Book of Destiny, and 
is happy so long as he has a sunbeam to prop 
his roof. — But who are these ? " she suddenly 
exclaimed, interrupting herself. 

" You have the youngest eyes. Tell us." 

Across the immense space, in shadowy per- 



Postscript. 231 

sportive, we saw a gentleman and lady walking so 
very slowl} T we said at once, "Lovers, whoever 
they be." 

When they reached the dingy corner under 
the women's gallery, where the six green jasper 
pillars from the Temple of Diana at Ephesus are 
pointed out to every tourist, we marked the fig- 
ure of a little lady who in the obscurity and dis- 
tance showed hardly the proportions of a child. 
Suddenly she reached up on tiptoe, and gave her 
companion a swift light tap on the cheek with her 
finger tips. The movement said, plainly as wdiis- 
per in your ear, "My lingers kiss you." 

"There is but one girl in the w T orld," said 
Thalia, " who would dare make such a gay gesture 
in this sepulchral spot ; my mosaics against that 
Egyptian Scarabaeus you are so proud of, that 
is Begina Atwood and the twenty-fourth Senior. 
As I live," she continued, in delight flushing ros} T 
red. "there's Uncle again, tagging along with 
hat glued to his head as usual, and carrying the 
same ridiculous handbag." 

; ' You notice he follows a good way off, so as 
not to be de trap, the third person not wanted. I 
always told you Uncle had fine instincts." 

" How glad I am to see her again, and to 
know she is reallv married ! " 



232 The Storied Sea. 

" How you do jump at conclusions, my 
Thalia ! " 

" And how I do hit them ! " she ran on posi- 
tively. u Look there! now the careful Uncle is 
wrapping the striped scarf round her throat, as 
well he may in this damp cavernous hole, knot- 
ting it in a big lump at the back of her neck, just 
like a man. Now she pulls it round under her 
chin. I can't see her dimples, but I know they are 
chasing each other over the sweet child's face as 
she laughs at his awkwardness. That change in 
her face always reminded me of a flower bursting 
into bloom. Bless her heart!" 

u Amen," said we, fervently. 

Thalia waved her handkerchief in high excite- 
ment, to the horror of the guard who gravely 
watches the strangers ; but she could not make 
them see, they were too absorbed, and came forward 
at a lover's pace, with eyes for each other only. 

It was indeed our steamer friend, leaning on 
the arm of a young man with fresh, eager, hand- 
some face upturned to the ceiling. Through the 
mystical changing lights of St. Sophia, she looked 
evanescent and ideal, as though one of the pictured 
angels, hidden under the whitewash of Mohammed 
the Conqueror, had floated down to rest her folded 
wings awhile. 



Postscript, 233 

It was the twenty-fourth Senior, and they were 
married. The Paradise of Love about them, 
radiant with the bloom and glow of youth, the 
beautiful pair shone in that dreary waste fit rep- 
resentatives of the bright New World which is 
Hope's own. 



University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 




>' -' :\ : ! " v - ■'..-"■ 



